


The Ethics of an Earldom

by freyjawriter24, Hexqueen517



Category: Downton Abbey, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1920s, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pre-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26735308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexqueen517/pseuds/Hexqueen517
Summary: The year is 1920, and Crowley and Aziraphale have been avoiding each other since their holy water argument in 1862. Crowley is in America pretending to be the Earl of Grantham, owner of Downton Abbey. But then one of his pranks backfires, and now a bootlegging crime boss expects Crowley to hand over the Downton estate. Meanwhile, the real Earl of Grantham is having Aziraphale appraise his library when Crowley shows up - and Gabriel and Dagon aren’t far behind.Caught between money and aristocracy, the New World and the Old World, and Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale and Crowley will need all of their intelligence and wiles to escape unscathed. This would be a terrible time to focus on flirting. Absolutely the worst. Yup.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 38
Collections: GO-Events POV Pairs Works





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [GO-Events](https://go-events.tumblr.com/) POV Pairs event.
> 
> Crowley’s POV is written by [freyjawriter24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24) and Aziraphale’s POV is written by [hexqueen517](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexqueen517).

**_The North Shore of Long Island, NY, 1920_ **

Things definitely looked brighter here. Crowley wasn’t sure whether it was the sudden penchant for gold and late-night parties, the determination to _live_ and feel _alive_ despite everything, or just the blasé sense of ‘you can’t touch us’ the circles he moved in were radiating. Whatever it was, the world felt intensely animated and active and colourful; it was like the humans had finally learned how to feel the Earth turning under them, and were treating the planet like the rollercoaster it was.

In that way, New York City was nothing like London (thank Satan). The buildings were newer, more contemporarily styled, and taller, squarer, bolder. The skyline was dominated by rectangular towers, not old church spires and ancient domes. Even the river had style – a straight line down the side of Manhattan, no wavy nonsense like the Thames. It was all perfectly Crowley’s style.

And that was it, wasn’t it? New York was _Crowley’s_ city, just as surely as if he’d built it himself. He hadn’t, of course – the humans did an awful lot that Crowley later took credit for Downstairs – but he'd helped out here and there, and in the last few decades he’d really made his mark. [1]

 _Decades._ Had he really been in America that long? No, yeah, of course he had, for reasons he wasn’t particularly fond of remembering. The last time he’d seen the angel hadn’t ended all that well. The States had seemed like a sensible diversion at the time.

But gosh, yeah. _Decades._ And here he was now, relaxing in the lap of luxury, in the most demonically-appropriate place he could imagine: the billiard room of a New York gang boss’s mansion.

He took a slug of his drink – an illegal act itself, these days, what with the Prohibition – and nodded along to his companion’s story about the latest operation (all identifying information omitted, of course. You can’t be too careful).

Said companion was known as Smitty. He was a deep-voiced, cheerful man – one Crowley might be tempted to refer to as ‘jolly’ if he looked a little more like Father Christmas and a little less like a mob boss. But despite the tell-tale appearance, he was a nice bloke. Chatty and entertaining, serious whenever the situation required it, and even occasionally quietly sensitive. Crowley liked his human friends to have depth and personality, and this particular criminal was well on his way to earning that status.

The gang leader finished his story with a well-timed joke, and Crowley threw back his head and laughed. It was a performative laugh in some respects, but an easy one nevertheless. Smitty was fun to be around.

The other gangsters in the room didn’t laugh, presumably because they were still trying to keep up the pretence that they weren’t listening. But even without the finely-tuned senses of a demon, Crowley could tell their conversations were empty, each of them completely focused on their boss in the centre of the room. A quiet word from Smitty, and anything he wanted would be handed to him. More whiskey? Another cigar? Something to eat? A gun? Of course.

The gangster was friendly, certainly, and Crowley enjoyed being around him. But that didn’t mean Smitty wasn’t lethally dangerous too. Sometimes, he even showed it.

Not now, though. Now, he was laughing at his own joke, smoking on a thick cigar, and offering Crowley more illegal alcohol – basically, just being a regular human.

Smitty had a sense of humour that could switch rapidly between light and dark, depending on the company he was with, and Crowley had decided to take it as a compliment that when it was just the two of them, Smitty veered towards light. It meant, the demon told himself, that Smitty trusted him, and didn’t feel the need to come across as intimidating.

Important thing for demons to gain in their targets, trust.

“You ever hear anything like that before? Bet you’ve never heard anything like it up in Canada, have you, Mr Anthony J. Crowley?”

The demon grinned. “That’s ‘my lord’ to you.”

Smitty snorted. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Earl Crawley...”

“Ugh, don’t call me that. It sounds so... wriggly. Like a bug or something.”

“Or a snake,” Smitty pointed out. At Crowley’s surprised frown, the gang leader gestured at the side of the demon’s face. “Snakes crawl, right? Or slither. Same difference.”

Crowley nodded slowly, then shrugged. “Anyway, technically it’s ‘Earl of Grantham’. Crawley’s just the surname. It got bastardised on the crossing – some immigration official wrote it down wrong and it stuck. I prefer Crowley anyway.”

“Earl of Grantham,” Smitty repeated, testing the name out on his tongue.

“Viscount Downton. That’s the name of the estate, see. Downton Abbey, it’s called. Nice place. Only been there a few times – prefer being over here mostly – but it’s a damn nice place.”

“That’s some posh title you’ve got there, Crowley.” The demon winked, and Smitty laughed. “More whiskey?”

“If you please,” came the overly-posh reply.

* * *

The evening went on, the contraband liquor flowing freely in the privacy of Thomas “Smitty” Smith’s Long Island new-money mansion. Crowley was enjoying staying at his new friend’s place – the benefits of being friends with a gang leader, aside from the excellent accommodation, were evident in his access to a whole swathe of New York’s thriving underbelly, with plenty of opportunity for temptation and trickery.

One of which he was hopeful of achieving tonight.

Smitty was smiling when he emptied the last of yet another bottle of illicit alcohol into Crowley’s glass. “You’re gonna drink up all my hooch at this rate!”

The demon hid any outward reaction, but internally he was grinning like a snake. “Ah, that won’t be a problem. Always know where I can get us more.”

Smitty raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said casually. “I live in Canada, remember. I have my connections.”

“Interesting. Well, if you were ever in the mood to do a trade...”

The demon paused, as if considering. “I could be persuaded. Got plenty to trade with.”

“Do ya? Where is it?”

“Now, now, that would be telling,” Crowley said, waggling a finger. “It’s nearby, though. Conneticut.”

Smitty raised his eyebrows. He took a long, slow drag on his cigar. “Can’t have hidden that much stock on American soil.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley scoffed. “Like I said, I’ve got plenty.”

“How much?”

Crowley snorted, aloof on the surface, alight with glee underneath. _Now to lay the trap._

“Bet you I’ve got more than you could carry in your little boat.”

“Do you, now?” Something sharp was shining in Smitty’s eyes now. “Care to make that bet official-like?”

Crowley pretended surprise. “What, you want to put a wager on it?”

“You bet your ass I do. You know I got a reputation to consider. You think I can't get the job done when you're handing it to me on a silver platter?” He grinned, and Crowley felt the beginnings of that smooth satisfaction of a temptation achieved.

“Go on, then. What d’you want to put up?”

“Oh, no, that’s on you. How sure are you that you’ve got enough to weigh me down?”

It wasn’t the whiskey that did it, certainly not. He’d only had as much as Smitty had, after all, and a demon’s corporation could take far more alcohol than a human’s body could. But he was feeling successful, and bold, and unendingly confident. So he decided to go extravagant with his wager.

“I’d bet my earldom on it.”

A hush descended on the room. Every gangster who’d been pretending to have their own conversations stopped talking at once. All eyes were on Crowley and Smitty.

“Well then. That’s certainly something.” Smitty sat back a little in his chair, eyeing Crowley carefully. He took a deep drag on his cigar, had a thoughtful sip of his drink, then leaned forward again.

“So, your estate, what's that? You got a mansion as big as this one?”

Crowley looked around, evaluating the room they were in. “A little bigger, perhaps. Ceilings are higher, at least. And the grounds are _much_ bigger.”

“Alright, Sir Crowley Crawley of Downton, here’s the deal. A house for a house. You win, you get this place. I win, I get yours.”

Something in the back of Crowley’s mind showed a hint of nervousness at that. Only a hint, mind. And nervousness towards a deal was akin to cowardice. Not a good look on a demon in the midst of a major temptation.

He squashed down the feeling, and held out a hand to shake. “Deal.”

Smitty shook, grinning from ear to ear. The room let out its collective held breath.

Crowley tried not to worry.

* * *

The boat took four men to row, and it was a long crossing. Crowley and Smitty sat up in the bow end together, enjoying the late-night breeze and the distant view of the city. It was glowing through the smog, a beacon through fog, a faint light on the end of a dock.

Humans, Crowley thought proudly, were inventive little things. Dirty and messy and terrible, but oh-so clever. And they could make some really beautiful stuff, sometimes. Stuff like the City of New York – neat and ordered and filthy to its core. Pure blasphemous beauty. Heaven hated it. Crowley loved it.

Long Island retreated behind them into the dark as the boat slid over the softly-waving water, towards the invisible state line in the middle of the Sound. The night was cool and still, and the warmth of the alcohol in Crowley’s stomach made him feel more relaxed and content than he had in... Well, some decades at least. He wasn’t willing to pinpoint exactly when.

“I love living out here,” Smitty said quietly.

Crowley looked at him, one eyebrow slightly raised. He knew when humans wanted to talk, and he knew how to let them. Smitty recognised the invitation, and continued.

“It’s nice. Quiet, sometimes. And you can come out here, and just get away from it all for a bit, you know?” He sighed. “Sometimes you just want a bit of peace. And fresh air. And stars.”

The gang leader looked up above them, smiling gently at the little pinpricks of light that, unbeknownst to him, the being beside him had once helped form.

Crowley liked Smitty. He liked him for his sense of humour, for his raging lack of regard for the law, for his occasionally caring nature nevertheless. For the ways in which he made Crowley’s job easy, and for tiny moments like this one. Moments when he found a kind of child-like sweetness in the hardened mob boss’s face. It made Crowley wonder whether all humans looked at his stars like that sometimes.

“Do you ever think about getting away from it all?” Smitty asked.

The demon pulled back a little. “Away?”

“Yeah. Just get yourself a nice little place out in the country, enjoy the rest of your life. Maybe with someone special.”

There was no particular implication in that statement, and certainly no knowledge to back it up. Crowley wasn’t thought to be seeing anyone in particular, and he’d made a particular effort not to talk about Az– _anyone_ while over here. It was a simple, polite, human inquiry.

Crowley swallowed hard, and tried to hide it. “Nah, not for a while yet,” he said casually. “I’m still young! Got plenty to do before I retire, need to mess with loads of people yet.”

Smitty gave a small, sad smile in Crowley’s direction. For an instant, the demon had the horrible impression that the gangster was pitying him.

Then the moment was gone, and Smitty was talking about some book or other he’d heard about and was interested in reading – _The Great Impersonation_ , it was called, and to be fair it seemed to have an intriguing premise.

* * *

Crowley jumped out the boat with all the grace of a flying snake. He hurried a little ahead, then turned, put a hand up to indicate the boatmen should follow quietly and slowly, then pointed silently in the right direction. A couple of the humans nodded, and then the demon was off into the trees, looking for his liquor.

The lamp in the little storehouse was on, the yellow light filtering out under the door. Crowley rolled his eyes at that – they were well-hidden here, but still, a little bit of discreetness wouldn’t go amiss.

The door was locked, but not for him. Crowley checked the humans had seen which way he’d gone, then slipped inside.

“Eric!” He hissed in surprise as soon as he was in. Two demons looked up from their game of cards at the name, and at least one of them had the (dis)grace to look embarrassed. “There are humans coming!”

“Don’t worry, there’s only two of us,” the less-sheepish one said. “We’re twins!”

“Yeah, wearing the same outfit. Talk about weird.”

The Erics looked at one another, and after a moment one of them snapped to change the colour of his shirt. The talkative one was now Blue Eric, and the blushing one was Red Eric.

“Great. Good. That’ll do. Anyway.” Crowley turned to the back of the little room with a barely-supressed grin of delight. Here he was. It was all going according to plan. He had tempted a gangster to greed and an illegal trade, _plus_ he was about to screw said gangster over by tricking him out of his mansion.

He reached out to the wide curtain that concealed the large back section of the building, and drew it back with a flamboyant flourish. Then he stopped. And stared.

“Eric...” he said slowly. “Where’s the rest of my liquor?”

The rear portion of the hut, entirely full of towering stacks of barrels the last time Crowley had seen it, was now barely half full.

“A couple of humans came through the other day,” said one of the Erics, probably Blue. “Said they knew you, and you’d asked them to grab a few barrels for you.”

Crowley gritted his teeth. “And you let them?”

“Well, yeah. They said they knew you.”

The snake part of Crowley was sincerely tempted to turn around and bite Blue’s head off. Instead, he took a breath, and tried to stay reasonable. His voice, when it came, was low and dangerous.

“Of course they bloody said that. They were tricking you, weren’t they? Getting free booze out of you. Did they even pay you for it?”

There was silence. Slowly, Crowley turned around and glared at Blue.

Red answered instead. “They said you’d already taken care of that. Half paid before the job, half after. They knew where to find you.”

“Yesss, except they _didn’t_ , because they weren’t _paying me_ for it, they were _ssstealing_ it. That’s not even – argh!”

“Sorry, Crowley. We didn’t know.” Blue’s voice was small.

So was Red’s. “We don’t come up here often. Sorry.”

Crowley groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He sighed. “My fault, really. Should’ve given you a proper run-down on shit humans might try to pull, and how money works, and all that.”

The sound of people approaching made Crowley groan again. “Look, don’t say a word with the humans around. As soon as we’re gone, head back Downstairs. I won’t call on you for a bit, most likely – need to clean this mess up – but I’ll give you a proper tour and a whole bloody lecture next time, okay? I can _not_ have anything like this happen again.”

“Got it,” Red said, and then both Erics shut their mouths dutifully as the first couple of Smitty’s men opened the door and came in. Crowley pointed, silent and dejected, and they headed straight for the barrels, shifting them easily and wordlessly, like the professionals they were.

Smitty appeared next, and eyed Crowley’s offering with scepticism.

“There _was_ more than that. Sounds like a couple of the locals decided to be a little enterprising,” the demon said heavily.

Smitty stared at him, then burst out laughing.

“Oi, shut up!” Crowley said indignantly. “I’m suffering here, I’ve lost half my stock!”

“And your earldom,” Smitty pointed out cheerfully.

Crowley’s face went slack. “Your boat can still fit this much?”

“You’re kidding me, right? I would’ve been screwed if you had twice this much, but this? Piece of cake.”

Crowley groaned again. How the Heaven was he going to get out of this one? “Well, there’s a special place in Hell for the dickheads that stole from me, I can tell you that for free.”

Smitty chuckled, then left to direct the boatmen on how best to stack their new haul.

“Shit,” Crowley said, trying hard not to direct it at the Erics. “Shit shit shit shit shit.”

* * *

The liquor barrels were large and heavy, but not large and heavy enough. Smitty and Crowley had to perch on one each, but the six people and every drop of the goddamned alcohol made it into the boat without it sinking. And so began the journey back to Long Island, Crowley screaming internally the whole way.

“What’s it like?” Smitty wanted to know, increasingly enthusiastic about the house. “Is it fancy? Old?”

“Older than this country. And fancy as anything,” Crowley said unhappily. “It’s beautiful.” _And it’s not actually mine._

“We’ll have to go and see it with you,” Smitty was saying enthusiastically. “Get everything squared away here, and then we can move straight in.”

“We?”

Smitty smiled. “Me and my girl. She’s, ah, on the other side, you know? It's like a _Romeo and Juliet_ thing, so we’ve had to keep it a secret. You know what I mean?”

Something twinged in Crowley’s chest at the look on Smitty’s face. He made a non-committal noise and pushed the feeling away, not daring to examine it too closely.

The gangster was looking out across the water, off in the direction of the lightening sky where the sun would rise in an hour or so. “Been looking for somewhere we can get away together,” he murmured. “This place sounds like just the ticket. Away from her brother, away from the gangs, just somewhere nice and peaceful and pretty. Perfect.”

And that meant the demon had to go back to Britain.

“Yep,” Crowley said miserably. “Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 London, in much the same way, was _Aziraphale’s_ city – full of history at every turn, insufferably English, polite yet with a definite spike of bastardry underneath, and almost entirely defined by human hands. But Crowley wasn’t thinking about that. [return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

**_Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, 1920_ **

In Aziraphale’s opinion, few things were more restorative than a holiday at an English country estate. He loved London, but the city had been grating on his nerves for a couple of decades, what with the thickening smog, the multiplying telephone and electric wires blocking the view, and the racket from the newfangled automobiles. His eyes, ears, nose, and throat were under constant assault. London hadn’t been the same since … oh, never mind when, it just wasn’t the same lately. It was smelly and dirty and tedious.

When he received a letter from Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, asking for his assistance to appraise the contents of the library at Downton Abbey, it felt like the answer to an unspoken prayer. Aziraphale rarely left his prayers unspoken, and there were only two desires so personal, so selfish, so close to his heart, he didn’t dare speak them aloud, even to God. One of those desires was to be left alone in a library without a mission from Heaven monopolizing his time. The request from Lord Grantham met that requirement perfectly, and if Aziraphale recalled correctly, the cook at Downton, Mrs. Patmore, was excellent, although the quality of the books left something to be desired. Oh, well, he could always bring his own.

The train ride was uneventful and short, only allowing him to read half of the newest collection of short stories from Wodehouse, the perfect aperitif to an English country visit. Grantham had one of his infernal automobiles meet him at the station, but the chauffeur, Branson, was up for a friendly and lively chat about how the Easter Rising of 1916 had influenced modern Irish writing. If only Grantham was nearly as interested in literature, but perhaps that was for the best. Late nights drinking wine and debating trends of human thought were a sticky business. Aziraphale didn’t miss that at all. Oh, fine, he did, he did very much, but he shouldn’t, and that was the point, wasn’t it? Yes, it was. Speaking of which, it was marvelous to get out of London. A change of scenery was exactly what he needed to keep his mind off things.

The estate house was as breathtaking as always. Downton was an architectural masterpiece, filled to the brim with priceless works of art. It was somehow both an imposing temple to aristocratic greed and a public display of the fruits of human creativity. After he greeted the delightful Crawley family, the butler, Mr. Carson, showed him upstairs. To Aziraphale’s surprise, Grantham followed them upstairs and cornered him outside the guest room. He was a tall man in his 50s, with gray hair and a face creased with worry lines.

“I’m so glad you could come on short notice, Fell,” Grantham said.

“Yes, you mentioned that downstairs,” Aziraphale said. “Really, the pleasure’s all mine. This time of year makes one want to be out and about in nature, not cooped up in the city.”

“I’ve never been a London chap myself,” Grantham said. “Please, let us know if we can do anything to make you more comfortable. And … I do need to ask you for a favor.”

Ah. Grantham squirmed and grimaced, and Aziraphale smiled reassuringly but kept silent. Millenia among humans – and one mischievous demon – had taught him not to rush into hasty promises.

“I haven’t told my wife Cora why you’re here,” Grantham confessed. “I haven’t told anyone, actually. Do you mind keeping that under your hat?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t see what devious plot you might have against your family that involves appraising the contents of your library.”

Grantham smiled, but it was a poor imitation of the genuine article. “It’s for my family, actually. We’re having trouble with the estate. You probably know that only males can inherit per English law.”

“Yes, but I thought there was a cousin?”

“I’m afraid he passed recently without issue,” Grantham said quietly. “I don’t know what’s going to become of Downton Abbey now. None of my daughters can legally inherit.”

The ego of the male members of Parliament always left Aziraphale wondering how much stroking and petting they’d received from an infernally gorgeous serpent, although this particular law wasn’t Crowley’s style at all. Unfortunately, human pride and self-importance were weapons with very scattershot aim. Poor Grantham, with three daughters and an elderly mother to provide for. “I’ve always thought male primogeniture was a barbarous custom,” he said kindly.

To his surprise, Grantham bristled, his posture becoming stiffer. “Yes, well, tradition is important. How would a woman manage all this, eh?”

“I can’t imagine,” Aziraphale said dryly as he began to remember the reasons for his long absence from country living.

“But I need to provide for them financially. Just in case something was to happen to me. So, to that end, I’ve been … liquidating certain assets of Downton.”

“Such as rare books, I take it?”

Grantham nodded. Drat, if only the man’s family had taken an interest in culture. The preceding Earls of Grantham had tendencies to spend it all on cards and horses, and order books by the yard based on the colors of the covers. Still, that didn’t make this Earl of Grantham any less of a friend.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Aziraphale said, and he felt the tension ease from Grantham’s mind. He gave the man a silent blessing to sleep well that night. After all, he was only trying to provide for his family. And who knew? There could be hidden treasures. The family may have been practically illiterate since the days of William the Conqueror, but that only increased the chances of running into a valuable original copy of Dickens.

Yes, an uneventful sojourn in the country, with nothing to occupy him other than enjoying Mrs. Patmore’s famous raspberry fools and browsing through light reading was just the ticket. He was sure he’d be able to find something to give Grantham some financial relief. Humans, always forced to be preoccupied with money. The girls must be worried sick about what would happen to them if they were ejected from their home. Aziraphale was glad he’d come, glad he could possibly be of service. With that goal in mind, he resolved not to complain about the library. At least not out loud.

The next afternoon, he was comfortably ensconced in that library in a cosy armchair by the fireplace, Mrs. Patmore’s spice cake close at hand while he browsed through a battered but still serviceable edition of _David Copperfield_ , when Mary Crawley settled at a nearby desk to read her correspondence. Mary was Grantham’s oldest daughter, and in Aziraphale’s opinion, she was certainly intelligent enough to manage Downton Abbey, probably better than whichever Earl had decided to gild the ceilings. Mary managed to look simultaneously fashionable and traditional, her gray embroidered dress hemmed trendily to just below her knees. She sorted her mail without conversation, allowing Aziraphale to muse silently on Dickens’ failure to get to the point already.

Then, suddenly, Mary spoke. “What is this? A joke of some sort?”

Aziraphale looked up. “What is it, my dear?”

“Someone has sent us a letter, but it’s addressed _from_ the Earl of Grantham, not _to_ the Earl of Grantham.” She held out a sheet of paper folded in thirds. “And look, they’ve used old-fashioned sealing wax and sealed it shut. Ridiculous. Not only that, but when I opened the seal … well, see for yourself.”

Aziraphale attempted to unfold the letter, but it had been glued shut. Something about that tickled his intuition, but he ignored it. Forcefully. However, he couldn’t help but say, “Someone appears to think he’s quite funny.”

Mary took the letter back and brandished her letter opener. “Here, I’ll slice it open. Let’s see … oh. This can’t be … It’s from a relation in Canada. He’s coming here to visit. Oh my goodness, he’ll be here tomorrow! I’d better find Mother and Father right away.”

Mary dropped the letter on her desk and went in search of her family, Aziraphale completely forgotten in her distress.

Aziraphale retrieved his novel, but the way the letter had been glued shut bothered him. Finally, curiosity got the better of him, and even though it wasn’t polite, he couldn’t help but pick up the letter. On closer examination, the red wax seal had been embossed with the image of a snake curled around an apple.

He gasped. Oh, no. It couldn’t be. No longer concerned with propriety, he read the letter with its familiar slanting scrawl:

_Dearest Lord Grantham and Crawley family:_

_Greetings and salutations from Canada. I am your cousin twice removed, Sir Anthony J. Crowley, lately of Canada._

“Really, you lazy fiend, you couldn’t look in an atlas to find a name such as Toronto?” Aziraphale muttered to himself. His heart rate was doubling, skipping about as if it had any excuse for such frivolity. Anthony, eh? He wasn’t sure how he felt about that yet, but it was none of his business, he supposed.

_I am pleased to let you know that I’ll be in London on the 17th of May for business, and I would like to visit Downton Abbey, which I have heard much about from my dear old mother, recently deceased._

Recently deceased! The nerve. Aziraphale’s palms were beginning to sweat just thinking of the impertinence.

_I hope this visit isn’t too much of an imposition._

It is! It is an imposition! Aziraphale’s nerves were already jumping like grasshoppers.

_I’d also like to introduce you to a very respected business associate from New York who will be making his first trip to England._

Aziraphale knew exactly what Crowley meant by a very respected associate. He meant quite the opposite. What did the demon have planned this time?

_I am having my Nash Touring automobile shipped to London from Detroit. It is a two-seater, so I will initially be arriving at Downton alone._

The rest of the letter went on for a paragraph or two about the automobile, which didn’t surprise Aziraphale in the least. He hadn’t seen Crowley for some time now (October 1862, late afternoon before teatime, to be exact), but he could easily imagine him taking to automobiles. He realised the days of teasing Crowley about his grudge matches with horses were well and truly over.

Why? Why did everything on Earth have to change?

  


At dinner that evening, the Crawley family was excited to talk about their distant cousin and his upcoming visit.

“Maybe he’ll be rich and handsome. And unattached,” Grantham’s wife, Cora, said. Lady Grantham had been born and raised in the United States and had an American way of getting straight to the heart of the matter.

“Oh, please, Mother. The last thing we need is your matchmaking,” Mary said.

Violet Crawley, Grantham’s mother and the Dowager Countess of Grantham, put down her silver fish fork. “Exactly. I’m sure my matchmaking will suffice.”

The middle daughter, Edith, played with her newly bobbed, carrot-colored hair. “Just think, Sir Anthony J. Crowley could be the heir to the estate.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “So typical. You’ve already got the poor man dragooned into walking you down the aisle, and you haven’t met him yet.”

Edith scoffed. “Why should I bother? There’s not a male between the ages of 10 and 70 you won’t try to twist around your little finger.”

Before the girls could get into one of their arguments (and after Aziraphale had signalled the footman to replenish his serving of roasted asparagus), he intervened. “I’m acquainted with, uh, Anthony J. Crowley, and I can’t say I’d recommend him as a candidate for matrimony.”

Not unexpectedly, everyone’s attention turned towards him. “What’s he like?” all three girls managed to ask at once.

“He’s a bit of a scoundrel. I’m not sure his business dealings are all above reproach. Plus he’s … well, a single man about town, prone to gambling and drinking and other misdeeds.”

“A single man?” Edith said. “As in a single man in need of female companionship?”

Aziraphale simply lifted his eyebrows. That had not been at all what he meant.

“That’s enough of that,” Grantham said firmly. “Fell, I’ve never heard you say a word against anybody. This Crowley character must be a real reprobate.”

“He’s a wily one,” Aziraphale agreed. “Very clever.”

“You don’t think it’s so bad that we should withdraw our hospitality, do you?” Lady Grantham asked. “We do have three young, impressionable girls under our roof.”

“Are they that impressionable? Oh, dear, I hadn’t realised,” the Dowager Countess said.

“What do you think, Fell?” Grantham said. “Would you entertain the fellow?”

Aziraphale hated to lie. He fidgeted with stem of his crystal wine glass. “I suppose … well, I have been known to share a drink or two with Crowley. He’s quite charming when he wants to be.”

“I don’t see how we can turn him away at this late hour,” Mary said. “He’s expected tomorrow. And apparently, he’s family.”

There was no reasonable way to explain that Crowley wasn’t a blood relation because he didn’t have any human blood. Unless he was keeping some blood in an airtight container for … no, no, now he was just being ridiculous. Good heavens, what was Crowley doing in England anyway? Probably an assignment from Downstairs. Aziraphale didn’t think anything less could drag Crowley back across the pond.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” he said. “Just don’t let him influence you in any of your decisions.”

Grantham straightened his tuxedo jacket. “We’ll have to depend on Mr. Fell to clue us in if Sir Anthony Crowley tries to misrepresent himself.”

Lady Grantham smiled warmly. “Yes, I’m sure we can rely on good Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale returned the smile. So, after avoiding him for almost six decades, the demon had business at Downton Abbey. It was about time he got back to his skill set: thwarting. He was almost looking forward to it. It was bracing, really, to be back in the game after such a long, dull time. He’d definitely have to extend his country holiday.

“Just in case Sir Anthony turns out to be the heir,” the Dowager Countess said, “we’ll introduce him to Mary right away.”

“Oh, really, Grandmother, I’m not a piece of currency,” Mary said, but her eyes danced with anticipation. Aziraphale hoped his own eyes weren’t giving anything away.

  


On the following afternoon, a horrible death trap pulled up to the very front of Downton with a noise like a goat being forced underwater. Crowley leapt out of the automobile, passing off the keys to Branson. Aziraphale, peering out a front window, sucked in breath through his clenched teeth. Crowley looked magnificent in a stylish three-piece, pinstriped suit – in black, of course. His trousers were tighter than Aziraphale had seen him wear since the Bastille. A black silk shirt peeked out from the form-fitting waistcoat and jacket, complimented with a red pocket square. He was somehow more beautiful than ever, the snake. Temptation incarnate – that never changed. His hips swayed as he strode to the door. Then he pushed back his rakish fedora, and scarlet curls tumbled over his serpent marking. Good. Lord.

Aziraphale worried at his bottom lip. This reunion might be more difficult than he’d foreseen. He’d tried to forget how vibrant and full of life Crowley was in person. The last time they’d been together, that vibrancy had been channeled into anger. His stomach churned at the memory of Crowley snarling at him.

The family assembled in the hall to greet their new guest. Crowley shook hands with Grantham, kissed Lady Grantham’s hand, and preened for the Dowager Countess. Aziraphale stood a few feet back with an affected air of nonchalance, as if this was only slightly diverting, as if his hands weren’t trembling. Just as Lady Grantham was about to introduce her daughters, Crowley turned his head and caught sight of Aziraphale.

Their eyes locked; even through Crowley’s dark lenses, Aziraphale could sense it. He froze, unable to move. Crowley’s jaw dropped. He took a step forward and stumbled before he righted himself. For once, Aziraphale had caught his adversary by surprise.

Crowley approached him, tilting his head to study his face from both right and left angles before examining him from head to toe. The newest pair of glasses hid less than Crowley thought they did, not that Aziraphale would tell him so. He couldn’t sense any anger. Quite the opposite. Crowley was practically leaning into him.

“Crowley,” he said, struggling to keep his relief from becoming too obvious. “You’re looking well.”

“Am I?” Crowley peered over his frames. “You are. I mean, you’re also looking well. It’s Fell, isn't it? Was my arrival such an important event that it managed to pry you from the library?”

Ah, he was teasing, pretending their row had never happened, falling back into familiar patterns. Aziraphale was stunned by the spiritual weight this lifted from him. He felt a ton lighter. “Naturally, your arrival was of interest to me, dear fellow,” he said. “I even put my book down in the middle of a chapter.”

Crowley grinned. “Still have the bookshop then?”

“Exactly where it’s always been. Well, what a happy coincidence to see you here at Downton.” Aziraphale gave up the fight to keep his feelings under wraps and let some of his joy bubble to the surface, bouncing on his toes. “I suppose we’re both here to enjoy a country holiday together.”

“You s’pose …” Crowley lifted a hand and dropped it. “Holiday. Course. Together. Right.”

The butler, Mr. Carson, approached. “Sir Anthony, did you bring your man?”

Crowley spun on his heel. “Did I _what?_ ”

“Your valet, sir.”

“Right. Nah, no valet with me.”

“I hope you won’t mind sharing with Mr. Fell.”

Crowley turned back slowly. His tongue darted out to the corner of his lips. For no understandable reason, Aziraphale felt his cheeks heating. “I don’t mind sharing with Mr. Fell at all,” Crowley drawled.

In a moment, Crowley was whisked away by the efficient Mr. Carson to rest before dressing for dinner. The thought of Crowley in white tie and tails … Aziraphale took a fortifying breath. He was already wondering if Mr. Carson could be prevailed upon to conjure up a bottle of burgundy for after dinner. Crowley was back in England, and although it wasn’t precisely what he might call home, it had to be the closest thing. It was mere decency to welcome him back with a toast or two.

“We weren’t even introduced properly,” Edith complained. “Grandmother, I thought you were planning on doing some matchmaking.”

“Never mind that now,” the Dowager Countess said. “It appears Sir Anthony had all the introductions he could wish for.”


	3. Chapter 3

The butler, knowledgeable and efficient, seemed to know exactly when to whisk Crowley off to avoid there being some kind of scene. The demon had to use every ounce of willpower he had to not turn back and see what Aziraphale was doing as he walked away – _was he watching? Was he talking about him? Was he walking off too?_ – and he couldn’t help but berate himself internally for it. _Why do you care?_

The problem was, Crowley had never been particularly good at lying to himself.

The walk to the guest bedroom felt far too long. Every step reminded Crowley of the scale of his deception, how deep he’d gotten himself into this con-gone-wrong, and that wasn’t particularly helping his emotional state. Eventually, though, the butler paused and opened a door. “Your room, sir. Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you, uh...” Crowley grimaced and held a finger in the air, wracking his brains. _What was the butler’s name? Something about an automobile, autocar_ – “Carson!”

Carson smiled politely – “Very good, sir” – and left.

Crowley stepped into the room, carefully shut the door behind himself, then sagged against it.

“Well, fuck.”

There was no escaping it. He was well and truly screwed. There was no way he’d be able to convince the family he was the heir to the estate, not if Aziraphale was around. And Smitty had probably already burnt a few bridges getting himself and his fiancée across from America without being caught by her family – there was no way he’d let this one slide.

“Fuck.”

At least this bedroom was a decent haven for the time being, somewhere he could hide and mope. The décor wasn’t half bad – the deep red walls and carpet and curtains certainly matched well with the demon’s sensibilities, if not perfectly with his hair. There was still room for improvement, though – the cream and gold accents, while pretty, didn’t quite fit Crowley’s aesthetic. He tried not to think about the person they did match, though. Tried not to think about how well the room brought together their two styles.

The demon groaned loudly, and went and threw himself face-down on the bed.

Aziraphale hadn’t changed a bit, of course. Witty and stuffy and righteous and be– _no_ , he wasn’t even going to let himself think that. Not appropriate, not at all. Especially considering their last meeting. Which Aziraphale seemed happy enough to pretend had never happened, thank Satan.

But still. Yes. Angel. He was here. Which was... honestly the exact opposite of what he’d been hoping for on the trip over, but now that it had happened... Well, frankly, he wouldn’t wish it any other way. Aziraphale was here, and for some reason happy to see Crowley – interested in treating it as a holiday, apparently – and he was so damn...

_Don’t say it,_ his long-buried smarter self thought. _Don’t even think it._

The larger, less self-preserving part of him got there first, though.

_Beautiful._ Aziraphale was _beautiful_.

Crowley groaned into the bedsheets.

He always had been, was the problem. From that first grateful smile on the wall of Eden, beaming brighter than any holy light Crowley remembered from Before. And at every meeting since then, come Hell or – well, less Hell, but certainly high water – no matter where or when they met, no matter the circumstances, Aziraphale was always so full of life and light and beauty.

And here he was now, same as always, bobbing up and down and wiggling in delight, treating this as a wonderful little getaway for the two of them, out in the country among the humans for a season. Wearing the same soft waistcoat he had the last time, a bloody tartan cravat tied neatly at his throat, and looking for all the world like the personification of soft perfection.

_Gosh_ , Crowley was screwed. Entirely and utterly fucked.

Well, this wasn’t exactly ‘resting before dinner’. Crowley flipped himself over on the bed, sighed deeply at the cream panelled ceiling, and stood. What had seemed like a haven of a room moments ago was now constricting, too much a reminder of too many things. He was too tightly coiled for this. He needed to get out, move around, stretch his legs. Maybe tour the house, get a better idea of what he was in for here.

Yes, that was a good idea. Everyone else would likely be preparing themselves for dinner, getting dressed up to greet their apparent relation in all their finery. That was a change that would take Crowley a mere instant, so he had plenty of spare time to wander the rooms of this place without anyone trying to _talk_ to him. As long as he avoided the library, he should be safe.

Decision made, the demon sprang to his feet and practically ran from the room, trying to forget the perfect cohesion of the room’s black and cream and red-marble fireplace.

* * *

He explored upstairs first, though there were few rooms he dared to enter in case they were occupied. It was a large place, enough bedrooms for a whole party of guests besides the family themselves, and certainly grand enough for Smitty to feel he’d got his wager’s worth. The demon moped his way down the stairs, grudgingly concealing himself from the notice of any passing humans, and ended up collapsing into a chair in the empty drawing room.

It was pretty in here. Well, it was pretty everywhere, and that was kinda part of the problem. It was pretty and expensive and ancestral and _not his_. And he was going to get found out and screwed over and possibly discorporated and Aziraphale was going to hate him forever and –

_Nope, no, stop thinking like that. Calm down, relax, you’re a cool demon, remember?_

The sight of a gramophone in the corner of the room gave him an idea, and Crowley snapped his fingers to start the table turning. The soothing tones of Antonín Dvořák’s _Humoresques_ wafted out through the machine’s trumpet, and the demon felt himself exhale softly with the peaceful lull of it.

Clever little things, humans. Able to make portable music machines. Whatever would they think of next?

Now, in the calm of the music, he could think more clearly. The picture still wasn’t pretty, but at least it was manageable.

_It’ll be fine,_ he told himself. _I’ll explain it all to Aziraphale, endure the humiliation of that, and then he’ll help me. He wouldn’t... We still have the Arrangement, even if it’s been a while. He’ll help. It’ll be fine. I’ll just convince the Crawleys that I’m their long-lost heir and that I’m selling the property to Smitty. It’ll be fine. Piece of cake. Simple._

The jarring sound of ‘Poco lento e grazioso’ skipping made Crowley glance sharply at the gramophone. Under his watchful eye, it skipped again. Then the crescendo-ing violins warped themselves into harsher tones, ones that distorted still further until they were no longer music but a grating voice.

“Crowley,” the gramophone said.

The Serpent of Eden swallowed, then stood and hurried over to the machine.

“Uh, yeah, yes, that’s me. Who do I have the displeasure of speaking to?”

“Dagon. I have an assignment for you.”

“Right.” _Shit._

New York was _his_ city, and Downstairs had been pretty pleased with it so far. He’d practically been given free rein over there. Now he was back in Britain, though, it seemed he was back onto _assignments_. Terrific.

“The nobility is in... trouble.” Dagon’s voice scratched through the air, the remains of the broken music echoing eerily behind the words. “The landed gentry are suffering. Their titles mean less and less every day, their estates are being broken up, and the hierarchy of the old system is crumbling.”

“Ah,” Crowley said, his heart lifting slightly. _I can do that. Cause more suffering, make a little noise, provoke a little revolt. Chaos is good. Might even get away with giving the estate to Smitty if it means the Grantham title dissolves._ “You want me to stir the pot? See a weak spot, poke it with a stick?”

“No, you dolt.”

Crowley’s heart sank.

“It’s not all about chaos and temptations – you think you can just have _fun_ , prod a little and watch everything come crashing down. You need to get your head out of your own arse once in a while and think about what’s best for _Hell_. I’ve done some calculations...”

He couldn’t see the Lord of the Files, but there was something about that tone of voice that meant Crowley could picture the scene perfectly. Those glassy, staring fish eyes, those too-big, too-sharp teeth, the shimmering skin stretching entirely the wrong way as the face formed a grimacing smile. Dagon would be pointing enthusiastically at a graph or a spreadsheet or something, maybe even several spread out across a desk, or at a giant poster with tiny writing pinned to an easel. If Crowley had been there in person, there’d probably be handouts.

“I’ve sent a couple of handouts to you. They’re in the record sleeve.”

_Ah. Of course._

He didn’t bother to read them.

“Look. The breaking up of the estates is resulting in better and more useful management of the land, which is reducing income inequality. Not to mention that the breakdown of hereditary rule is contributing to increased power for the average citizen – they’ve abolished property qualifications for half the population to vote now, did you hear? The Representation of the People Act, two years ago.”

Crowley nodded, before realising Dagon couldn’t see him. “Uh, yeah, yeah, terrible, yeah.”

Dagon scoffed. “Democracy. Worst form of Government, I say.”

The red-haired demon shrugged, out of habit. “Well, I dunno. It’s all about convincing people to vote against their own interests, I reckon. Convince them the party serving inequality is right, or that they’ll get the chance to be on top, and they’ll hate any progress towards improvements. You could get them to vote for anyone.”

Dagon was silent for a moment, and Crowley cringed. _Shit, maybe that was laying it on a bit too thick._

“That,” the gramophone said slowly. “Is demonic _genius_ , Crowley.”

He couldn’t help but smile a little in relief. “Why thank you.”

“I’ll make a note of that, and we can discuss it at your next employee review.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. _Bloody waste of time, that._ It’d get delayed, though, it always did. Too much bloody paperwork.

“In the meantime, your assignment is this: prop up the aristocracy. Keep it going. Keep them being selfish and greedy and caring more about themselves than their tenants and workers. They all belong in Hell, and if you can keep it going, we’ll have them.”

“Right. Brilliant. Yes.” If Crowley had had any blood flowing through his corporation, it probably would have drained out of his face about now. _What the Heaven am I going to tell Smitty?_

“Oh, and Crowley?” Dagon said as the words began to warp towards violins again.

“Mmm?”

“Do watch out for Heavenly interference. Since Satan, Upstairs have always hated a revolution. Word is they’re expecting one soon. So keep an eye out for any angelic presence. Should you encounter your adversary, that _Principality_ ” – the word was spat like the letters themselves were foul-tasting – “we expect you to prevail.”

“Yep, uh, sure. Will do.”

The music twisted and skipped a little more, and then it was _Humoresques No. 7_ again. Somehow it wasn’t so relaxing anymore.

Crowley sighed, and stopped the gramophone playing with a click of his fingers.

Well, shit. The last thing he wanted was an assignment from Hell. Especially not one that clashed directly with the complete fuck-up that was his failed wager with Smitty. He was, once again, completely and utterly screwed.

And what the _fuck_ was he going to tell Aziraphale?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [SylviaW1991](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylviaW1991/) for assistance in the classical music department (and thank you to everyone else in the GO Events server who sent recommendations! They’re all beautiful, and now I have a new writing playlist!). You can listen to Antonín Dvořák’s beautiful _Humoresques: No. 7, Poco lento e grazioso_ [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kZhW8XWnqEQ).  
> (Also, side note: it turns out Al Capone was [a fan of this music](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humoresques_\(Dvo%C5%99%C3%A1k\)#Recordings), which seems appropriate!)


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale was certain that he was the only angel who had ever been terrified and could describe deep-rooted fear. It was the feeling of a corporation breaking apart, the heart thumping too frantically, the facial muscles tensed to the point of pain. Terror narrowed the senses until the source of the terror was the only focus. It wiped rational thought away, leaving nothing but wordless prayers. His mind grasped desperately at anything that might make it stop, only to be confronted by black panic that made coming up with any plan impossible. How often did humans feel like this? It was awful, and he was a horrible angel to forget to “be not afraid,” but all he could do was cover his eyes and hope the terror would end.

Nausea cramped his abdomen, even after Crowley had parked the automobile and shut off the motor.

“Bloody brilliant machine, isn’t she?” Crowley’s self-satisfied smile didn’t look demonic, but this was definitely the worst thing Crowley had ever subjected him to, and that included Arrangement trips to Scotland in the winter. It included everything ever, throughout history.

Aziraphale swallowed the flood of saliva in his mouth. “I am never getting into an automobile with you again. You … you should be forbidden to operate one of these machines.”

“Relax, angel, I know what I’m doing.” Crowley spun the keys to the two-seater around his fingers and whistled as he exited the vehicle. Funny, Aziraphale had known for centuries that Crowley had a tragic tendency toward self-destruction, but he never realized before now that Crowley might enjoy discorporating himself, and Aziraphale right along with him.

Crowley was opening the passenger door for him long before Aziraphale’s legs felt up to the task of standing. “We must’ve been going faster than a freight train! We could’ve killed innocent people! What were you thinking?”

Crowley sniffed. “Was only thirty miles an hour. They make faster cars. Gonna have to get one, that’s for sure. So, you sitting in here all day? They’ve got champagne up there, I’ll bet.”

Alcohol, yes, wise decision. Aziraphale stumbled out of the infernal machine on wobbly legs, refusing to let Crowley support him, reviewing the unfortunate series of events that had led to him agreeing to let Crowley drive him to the town cricket match. 

Last night’s dinner with the Crawley family had just narrowly escaped disaster. It was as if Crowley hadn’t planned for their questions, as if his mind was preoccupied. He was posing as their distant cousin from Canada, but he knew nothing about the country. Aziraphale was almost sure that bears didn’t really make their dens in the main thoroughfare of Toronto, and that people didn’t ice skate to work. Crowley had glossed it over by explaining that he’d been living in New York, and when Grantham pressed him about their supposed relatives, Crowley told a story about a New York jazz club that was definitely not intended for mixed company. Aziraphale was forced to rescue the situation with a cover story about Crowley falling out with his family because of his refusal to plan ahead, which was a delicately pointed barb Crowley had, of course, chosen to ignore. Then the next thing he knew, the Crawleys were making arrangements to attend today’s cricket game, and the Dowager Duchess asked Crowley to drive Aziraphale to the match “since they were such old friends.” That was his reward for trying to help Crowley out, that … that … death ride. Well, that was the last time he was covering for the ungrateful demon. From now on, Crowley was on his own.

Up ahead, the Crawley’s staff had set up a pavilion covered by a white tent next to the cricket field, behind the stately C of E church. Apparently, this match was a local event of some note. The Downton Abbey staff was playing against the town team, and spirits were high. The kitchen staff had been at work since dawn, and the pavilion was stocked with enough canapes for the entire town, including oysters Rockefeller, Aziraphale’s favorite. He’d never forgive Crowley if his appetite didn’t return.

Their Oxford shoes squelched in the wet grass as they walked up a slight rise to the white tent. It was sunny now, but yesterday, it had rained cats and dogs. Aziraphale wished the Crawleys had told him about the cricket game in time to do something about the mud.

“So, what’s this game about, anyway?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale sighed. He knew better than to expect an apology. Crowley had already put it behind him, the whole unnecessary risk to their corporations. “Oh, it’s a local tradition, I expect, for the manor staff to field a team each year.”

“No, I mean cricket. What’s it about?”

“What’s it …” Aziraphale squinted at Crowley, who was sauntering with his hands in the front pockets of what passed for his cricket outfit. Although Crowley worshipped only at the altar of high fashion, he wasn’t dressed for the game today, but wore his usual colors. Aziraphale was actually the stylish one in his pressed trousers with their rolled cuffs and knife-edge crease, his new ivory knit waistcoat, and the matching boater. He’d taken a risk and worn a mint green bow tie with polka dots, not that Crowley had noticed. He didn’t dress to impress Crowley anyway, he--

“C’mon, Aziraphale, give me a leg up here.” Crowley pouted. “What am I supposed to know about cricket?”

“I’m not helping you anymore,” Aziraphale said, hardening himself against that ridiculous pout. “And, honestly, how do you not know what cricket is?”

Crowley shrugged, doing interesting things to his muscles. Did people play cricket in Canada? Aziraphale had no idea. This was going to be worse than last night’s dinner.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “I’ll explain cricket to you, but in exchange, you’ll tell me what you’re doing at Downton Abbey.”

“Yeah. We should probably talk about that.” Crowley glanced around suspiciously. “But first, champagne.”

Capital idea. They beelined for the flutes of champagne, and Aziraphale took a huge swallow before properly greeting Lady Grantham and the Dowager Duchess. Crowley followed his lead. Grantham’s daughters were occupied admiring the cricket players huddling before the match. The youngest, Sybil, whom Aziraphale thought was the kindest and most sensible of the girls, waved to the Downton staff team, and the well-read chauffeur, Branson, waved back. 

“They’d make a lovely couple, don’t you think?” he said quietly to Crowley.

“Pffght. Grantham wouldn’t thank you for helping that along.” Crowley made a sour face. “No doubt he’s got some crusty upper class twit picked out for her.”

“No doubt you’re right. Such a shame.” Aziraphale downed the rest of his champagne in one gulp. “Still, you know I have a soft spot for what Will called star-crossed lovers.”

Crowley actually blushed. “Yah. Yup. I know that. Got a thing I’m working on that end with my, uh, American guests.”

“Oh, really? Well, that’s a relief. I was afraid you were here on, oh, let’s call it an errand from your bosses, if that makes sense to you?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Bless it, angel, that makes sense to everyone. You are the bloody worst spy.”

“You know I don’t care for clandestine operations.” That only got him another eye roll. These new sunglasses were not very effective, although Aziraphale always knew when Crowley was rolling his eyes no matter how he obscured them. “Speaking of which, I suppose I should, ah, brief you on the basics of cricket. That’s correct usage, brief, right? Or is it recon?”

“Have I ever asked you to stop reading popular novels? I feel like I have.” 

Crowley didn’t wait for an answer, but slithered to the drinks table. Aziraphale swallowed the contents of a replacement flute and abandoned the glass before they stepped out from under the tent. Aziraphale motioned to the field.

“That’s called the pitch because … well, that’s where they pitch the ball.”

“Who does?”

“The bowler. See, a chap with a cricket bat stands there, by the wicket,” Aziraphale pointed, “and the bowler pitches the ball--”

“Along the ground?” 

“He’s trying to hit the wicket, which is the structure that looks like Brussels’ Cinquantenaire Triumphal Arch.”

“You and your blessed comparison thingies. Is the ball supposed to hit the ground?”

“So, um, and then those other fellows in the field are called the fielders.”

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you ever seen this game played, or have you only read about it?”

Aziraphale tried to pin him with a glare. “I don’t see what difference that makes, my dear. I still know more about it than you.”

“Hmmph.” Crowley edged his way toward the pitch. Before Aziraphale could stop him, he pilfered a ball and brought it back. 

“Okay, pretend I’m the pitcher.”

“The bowler. This isn’t American baseball.”

“Thank someone for that, we’d be here forever if it was.” Crowley held up the ball. “I’m the ball thrower. What do I do?”

“I believe you’re supposed to throw it as fast as possible, and also curve it to trick the batsman.”

Crowley threw the ball high into the air, and it landed right behind Aziraphale, who spun around to make sure no mud had splattered his cricket trousers. Crowley grinned saucily.

“You are not amusing,” Aziraphale told him. “You’re supposed to be aiming at the wicket, remember?”

“Nope.” Crowley popped the p. He picked up the ball and tossed it in his right hand. Then he cocked his hips, placing his left hand just above his hip bone to draw attention to his figure. He might very well be trying to look tempting on purpose, although he couldn’t help his nature. “Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

Aziraphale had a rule about refusing to let Crowley know how the temptation act affected him. “Alright. Cock your elbow back. No, no, not aiming for the crowd, you fiend.”

Aziraphale stepped into the curve of Crowley’s sinuous spine, coming from behind him to wrap his hand around the ball in Crowley’s fist. He could feel Crowley’s chilly fingers beneath his own and fought the instinct to rub them warm. His breath suddenly seemed to focus on the back of Crowley’s neck, his chin wanting to rest on the demon’s shoulder. This was practically an embrace, and Crowley leaned into his chest, where his heartbeat was amazingly strong. Gently, he eased Crowley’s arm back to pitch the ball, the terrible realization finally breaking into his conscious mind that, in fact, he had no earthly idea how to play cricket.

“Fuck,” Crowley growled, tickling his sensitive ear, “do you feel that?”

Aziraphale stepped away as fast as he could. “What … whatever do you mean?” His voice squeaked.

But now he could feel it too -- the signature tingle of an angelic presence. It strummed up his nerves, which had already been stretched to the breaking point. The air around them smelled like … Lux laundry detergent?

“Gabriel,” he whispered. Crowley tensed up with fear. 

Aziraphale took a deep, grounding breath. “Don’t panic, dear boy. He’ll be at the church. I’ll just see what he wants and he’ll be on his way in two shakes. Lickety split.” But his anxiety sang a different tune, and his stomach churned as it had on the automobile ride.

Crowley shivered. “I’m begging you, angel,” he pleaded, “don’t use slang at me.”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to roll his eyes. “Just save me some oysters, you rotten menace.”

There was nothing for it. He marched to the church, twisting his fingers together for luck. Praying that an archangel hadn’t seen him practically hugging a demon would probably not be acceptable behavior. Wishing for luck would have to do.

Fortunately for Aziraphale, there would be no demon smiting today because the church had a stained glass window depicting the Annunciation, and Gabriel was something of a publicity hound. Aziraphale found him staring at the window from the churchyard. 

“Why do they always depict me with long, blond curls?” he asked Aziraphale. Was it an actual question or hypothetical? Aziraphale settled for a professional expression in lieu of attempting an answer.

Honestly, if Crowley hadn’t pointed out the sense of Heaven floating in the air, Aziraphale might have thought Gabriel was an acquaintance of the Crawleys. He was dressed in immaculately clean white trousers, a cricket sweater edged in violet and Eton blue, and an aura of supreme confidence. Gabriel had been here for about a minute, and he fit in better than Aziraphale ever had.

“Look at you, sport, attending these human contests,” Gabriel said in his “buck up” voice. “You ought to get out in the field, Aziraphale. Get in a little sparring practice.”

“It’s cricket, actually,” he said, quickly adding, “It’s very obscure, I don’t know how it’s played. Sort of a whim of the local aristocracy. What, um, what brings you here?”

“Your reports, of course.” His violet eyes twinkled merrily. “I have an infallible memory. I remember everything important you’ve ever told us.”

Aziraphale desperately ransacked his mind for everything, for anything, he’d reported to Heaven that might come into play at a local cricket match. “I don’t think it will come to violence. There’s not a lot of ale here, and it’s a friendly matchup.”

“Of course, it will lead to violence eventually,” Gabriel said, nodding sagely.

“The … um …” Aziraphale surveyed the crowd, spotting a father lifting a young child on his shoulders. “It looks awfully quiet, though. What should I watch out for?”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “You tell me, champ. You’re the one who filed a report on this so-called income inequality.”

“Oh! Yes, income inequality.” He actually smiled at Gabriel. This was something he understood. “Jolly good. It’s been a real problem. I just have to ask, though, why now?”

After all, he’d started sending reports to the archangels concerning income inequality about 5700 years ago. It would have been useful to nip it in the bud back then. He supposed he couldn’t complain. At least they’d finally paid attention to his warnings.

“Really, Aziraphale?” Gabriel sighed loudly. “I should think it’s obvious that we have to strike a blow for income inequality, right here, right now. Get your blood up, soldier.”

“Right, right. So … when you say strike a blow for inequality … are we for it or against it?”

Gabriel gave him the look Aziraphale hated, where he raised his eyebrows just so. And Gabriel had a point. He’d asked a lousy question. It was just that he very much needed to know the answer.

“We are against it. Obviously.”

Aziraphale exhaled his relief. “Good. Splendid. I have some ideas, you know.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Gabriel said. “Let’s all stick to what we do best. And we know what that is in your case.”

His heart hammered in his chest. Please, he prayed to a distant God who didn’t get involved with archangels, please don’t make me have to figure out what he thinks I do best.

As per usual, his prayer request was granted in the worst possible way. Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder, making him stagger on the slippery ground. “Answer me quickly,” Gabriel demanded, “what would you do if a demon came up behind you?”

The feel of Crowley pressed against him on the pitch was still too fresh in his memory. “To do what?” he said before he could stop himself. Damn, damn, damn.

“Aziraphale. I said a demon. Dust out your ears.” Gabriel poked at his own ear. “How do humans keep things from collecting in there anyway?”

“They bathe,” Aziraphale said. Had Gabriel spotted Crowley? Sensed him? No, if he had, he’d be striding across the grounds in full avenging mode.

“They bathe? Are you sure? How often?”

“It depends on their occupation, I suppose.”

“That seems inconvenient. How do they make sure that laborers have access to the best bathing facilities?”

“Yes, well, we’re back to income inequality, I’m afraid. The reason for your visit?” 

“Right.” Gabriel’s smile was a bit predatory. “Word on the street is that Hell has an agent here in support of the aristocracy.”

Aziraphale couldn’t visibly react to that. He laced his hands together in front of him and kept his mouth shut. So, Crowley was here on assignment. Of course he was. Nothing less would’ve brought him back to England where they might run into one another. Aziraphale was ridiculous to think that Crowley might enjoy any of his stay at Downton. To think that Crowley might have wanted to see him.

Gabriel gestured at the cricket pitch and the milling crowd beyond the churchyard. “Look at all this repulsive champagne guzzling. Disgusting, right? We need to see this estate broken up into pieces for small family farms. That’s accomplishing income _equality_ , Aziraphale, in case you were wondering.”

He nodded. If only economies were that simple. He wondered if Gabriel had actually read any of his reports on inequality, and then chastised himself. This wasn’t Gabriel’s fault. Gabriel was here trying to fix it. Crowley was here trying to keep things broken.

“That’s your assignment. Influence these parasites and get them out of that big mansion, and let’s see this land opened up to the public. Most importantly, your personal mission is to thwart Hell’s agent here. This is a big one. So be on guard better than you have been today, okay, guardian?”

He nodded again, too afraid to speak.

Gabriel sighed. “I’d say I know we can count on you, but … you know what? Just do your best.”

“Of course. I know this is very important. This cause can make a huge difference--”

He was babbling to thin air. Gabriel had already disappeared, and Aziraphale was left alone, talking to himself. He should be used to that by now. It wasn’t as if anyone wanted to listen to him blather on, did they?

However, whether he wanted to listen or not, Aziraphale had a few choice words at the ready for one devious, backstabbing serpent.

By the time Aziraphale returned to the Crawley’s pavilion, the match was in full swing, and everyone’s attention was on the cricket field. He planted himself by the drinks table, helping himself to something stronger than champagne. Crowley sidled up to him, fiddling with the frame of his glasses.

“So, how did that go?” Crowley asked, and it almost sounded casual.

“I am officially on thwarting duty. In fact, I don’t think any questions would be asked if I indulged in some smiting.” Aziraphale frowned into his glass. “There’s a demon in the area working against the general welfare.”

“Urk,” Crowley said. “Yeah, so, about that. I was trying to tell you.”

If Aziraphale could’ve made Crowley feel guilty with a look … but he was a demon, what was the point? Still, he couldn’t help asking, “How, precisely, were you trying to tell me?”

“Gah, you know.” That got armwaved away. “I didn’t get the assignment until yesterday. It’s not even why I came here.”

Aziraphale wished he could believe that. He lifted an eyebrow. “And how do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

Crowley’s jaw dropped as if he’d been struck. “I have never lied to you. Not … not really, and you know that.”

Not really. Just hundreds of little lies of omission, and they added up. Not that Aziraphale was any more virtuous in this area. He sagged, suddenly exhausted. “So, let me see if I can summarize this accurately. My assignment is to see Downton Abbey chopped into pieces and thwart you, and your assignment is to ensure the success of the Crawleys and thwart me.”

“Yeah, sort of. I mean, yeah, exactly that. Spot on. Except there’s a wrinkle I haven’t told you about yet.”

“Oh goody. Do tell.”

Crowley moaned in frustration. “Don’t go using sarcasm at me. I might be in real trouble this time.”

That didn’t sound ideal. Aziraphale looked Crowley over carefully. He did seem jumpier than usual, as if he’d been too afraid to sleep. “Your American guests,” he ventured. “The couple arriving from London tomorrow.”

“Yup. Smitty’s a gangster. Organised crime is all the rage across the pond with that stupid Prohibition thingie.”

“Of course. You’re going to prop up the Crawleys with mafia money.”

Crowley gasped. “Aziraphale. Just … can you just listen to me? I’m in debt to this crime boss, and if I can’t pay up, I’ll be discorporated with a vengeance.” He tilted his head. “That would be a good title for a two-reeler. Discorporated with a Vengeance. I’d go see that one.”

“You and your tangents. I don’t see what the problem is. We can handle a human. What do you owe him?”

“Downton Abbey,” Crowley mumbled into his shirt sleeve.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. “Did you just mumble _Downton Abbey_?”

Crowley pulled himself up from his usual slouch to his full height. “I need your help. I’m officially invoking the Arrangement.”

“I hardly think the Arrangement covers this.” 

“Look, angel, this gangster thinks I own Downton Abbey,” Crowley said. “All I’m asking is that you play along with me until I figure out how to get rid of him. Dagon’s assignment is just to keep things the same, so, what’s that word? Entropy? No, inertia. I’m letting inertia take the wheel while I sort out Smitty.”

“Dagon?” Aziraphale winced. “She’s quite the stickler, isn’t she? You won’t be able to avoid her for long.”

“That’s my problem, not yours.”

“Except inertia only applies if there isn’t an outside force working to change the status quo. My assignment is to see the Crawleys go bankrupt and lose Downton.” 

He felt a pang of guilt. The Crawleys were such nice people, and now he’d be accepting their hospitality while working against them behind their back. That didn’t feel angelic at all, even if it was for the betterment of mankind. It felt like a stomach ache.

“That’s a big ask,” Crowley said. He used his disarming grin, not that it had ever disarmed Aziraphale, at least not much. “Gabriel can’t blame you if it takes a long time to accomplish.”

“It won’t. The Crawleys are on the verge of bankruptcy already. Grantham is rather desperate.”

“Fuck. Can’t we do what we normally do and cancel each other out?”

“No, I don’t think so. Not this time.” Aziraphale needed to explain. “This is my chance, Crowley. I’ve been pestering Gabriel about addressing income inequality for centuries. Millennia. He’s finally listening. I’m … I’m very sorry, but this is too important. Not for me, for the humans.”

“You honestly believe Gabriel’s listening to you? After all this time? All Gabriel wants is to one-up Hell and you know it.”

That couldn’t be true. “Just because you don’t listen to me doesn’t mean nobody listens to me.”

Crowley paced in a tiny circle. “You … just … ngk … why are you doing this to me, angel?”

“Because I have principles. Think of what a difference it would make if Heaven came to terms with how the economy affects the human soul. I can’t pass up this opportunity to relieve human suffering.”

Crowley shrugged, all sinuous and boneless arms. “Sure. I get it. Whatever.”

In the distance, the crack of the cricket bat sounded, and people cheered. Aziraphale watched Crowley pick up a glass. Just a few minutes ago, he had curled his fingers around Crowley’s on the cricket ball. He wondered if Crowley could still feel that heat on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he told his oldest friend. “This isn’t personal.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. You know. Forget I asked you anything.”

“Crowley! You’re being unreasonable.”

But Crowley had turned his back and was sauntering away. Who stuck around to listen to Aziraphale? Nobody, that was who. 

What did Crowley expect, anyway? As soon as this gangster got to Downton, it would be blindingly obvious that the estate wasn’t Crowley’s. And that didn’t begin to address Dagon’s demands. The Lord of the Files wouldn’t forget if Crowley crossed her, not for the entire length of eternity. Probably the best chance Crowley had was to leave Downton Abbey right now.

After the fallout from this, would he ever see Crowley again? 

Aziraphale threw back the entire glass of liquor at once. It didn’t fix the aching in his chest. Angels, he reflected, and not for the first time, angels should not have moral dilemmas. If he were a decent sort of angel, everything would be crystal clear. The decent sort of angel didn’t risk the advancement of the human race for the sake of a demon’s personal safety. Sometimes he wondered if God hadn’t made a mistake in creating him to be a guardian angel. But God didn’t make mistakes. The only being who was a mistake was Aziraphale himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1920s clothing is so much fun. I've been getting the basics of 1920s fashion from this wonderful article: https://vintagedancer.com/1920s/1920s-fashion-men/
> 
> Fortunately for Aziraphale, bow ties and pocket watches are all the rage. Unfortunately, ankle boots are considered old-fashioned. Unfortunately for Crowley, black suits and tight trousers are on their way out. By 1929, trouser legs will be ridiculously wide. Fortunately, the fedora is a cutting-edge accessory that will remain in style through the Blitz.


	5. Chapter 5

The new day dawned bright and cheerful outside Crowley’s window. The demon groaned into the pillow, hating everything – hating the sunshine outside, hating the dawn chorus of the birds that had risen with it, hating the comfort of the bed he’d hardly slept in, hating the audacity of this place to be as beautiful and expensive as it was, hating himself for getting into this situation, hating _absolutely everything_ [2] because this was, officially, going to be the worst day of Crowley’s life. [3]

He dragged himself out of bed anyway. It was useless trying to delay the inevitable. He snapped himself into new clothes, checked his hair in the mirror on the table, then headed out of that bloody room to stalk around the house like the pile of nerves he was.

Today was the day that Smitty arrived. Smitty and his fiancée, no less. Smitty, his fiancée, and the expectation that they’d be handed the keys to the Abbey.

Gosh, he was fucked.

The house was practically empty as he made his way downstairs, looking for something to temporarily distract him. Only the odd servant was up and about this early – no one that he’d be obliged to make conversation with. [4]

Downstairs there were a few places to go, none particularly desirable. The drawing room hadn’t turned out well for him last time – Crowley was inclined to keep away from gramophones when he was alone, from now on. The library was still a no-go zone, especially after yesterday – _you don’t listen to me_ – no, no, not worth thinking about.

The only other choices were yet more fancy rooms with nothing to do in them, or outside. Crowley opted for the latter – perhaps there’d be some plants out there he could talk to, who would at least _listen_. He stepped out into the cool morning air.

_Ohh._ Crowley felt his corporation relax almost instantly. He inhaled deeply the crisp, clean air of the Yorkshire countryside, breathing in the scents of English country living.

This was what life was about. This, the simple joy of _this_.

It was the sort of thing Downstairs [5] would never understand – the pleasure of being alive, here on Earth, a tiny part of the enormity of Creation. Come to think of it, Crowley was pretty sure Upstairs didn’t understand it either. It was something you had to _experience_ to truly get. You had to live amongst it, take every day as it came, deal with the ups and downs of life on Earth – and then breathe in the cool, fresh air of a completely normal morning, and realise what was so wonderful about it all.

Other than the humans, there was only one other person who truly understood that feeling. And not even the humans had the added context of nearly six thousand years of living this way.

Crowley sighed. Then he stuck his hands in his pockets and strode away from the house in the direction of some rhododendrons that looked like they were interested in some heated conversation.

* * *

The stroll in the gardens had at least made Crowley feel a little better. By the time he had to make an appearance for breakfast, he was calm enough to be civil, and composed enough not to keep throwing meaningful looks at Aziraphale across the table. In fact, he barely glanced at the angel at all. Which was definitely some kind of victory.

By the time the sounds of a motorcar pulling up to the front of the Abbey could be heard, though, enough time had passed just _waiting_ that Crowley was on edge all over again. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

“Crowley!” Smitty said, grinning widely at the demon as he clambered out of the vehicle. The New York twang to his voice felt out of place here, even at a house where an American was in residence. It was too rough, too down-to-Earth, too real.

Yeah, that was the problem. It all felt too _real_.

“Here we go, darlin’.” The (now ex-) gang leader was fast, and had made it round to the passenger side of the car before any of the servants or Crowley did, opening the door for his beloved with a smile that looked far too soft to be on any mob boss’s face. Smitty passed off the car keys to the waiting Branson, and held out a hand for his fiancée to take.

“This here’s the guy I was tellin’ you about, Pammy,” Smitty said cheerfully. “Sir Anthony J. Crowley.”

“Just Crowley is fine,” the demon said, flashing a winning smile at the young lady.

“Pamela Johnson,” she said, holding her other hand out to Crowley. “Lovely to meet you, finally!”

Her accent wasn’t quite as strongly New York as Smitty’s, but she embodied the bold and bright spirit of the United States even more than he did, smiling excitedly at everyone and sticking out amongst the reserved Brits like a red rose in a field of daisies. Her vibrant dress certainly matched that image.

“Quite lovely indeed,” Crowley said, playing up to the posh Britishness of the situation. Pamela seemed to appreciate that, laughing gleefully as he kissed her hand.

“And, uh, these are my relatives,” Crowley added quickly, gesturing widely to the assembled group. “Sir Robert Crawley, his wonderful wife Cora – who I’m sure you’ll enjoy speaking to about life across the Pond – and their beautiful daughters Mary, Edith, and Sybil.”

“And who’s this lovely young lady?” Smitty asked, smiling broadly at Violet, who didn’t seem entirely amused by the joke.

“The Lady Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess,” Crowley explained. “She’s the girls’ grandmother.”

“I see. Great to meet you, your ladyship.”

Crowley was fairly impressed at how polite Smitty was being to all these people who he had presumably had no idea he’d be meeting today. But then he was actually a decent bloke – that’s why Crowley had liked hanging out with him in New York, after all.

Then there was only one other person left to introduce.

“And, erm, of course, this is Aziraphale Fell. He’s a guest at the house for the season, and an, uh, old friend of mine.”

Crowley had the odd sense that Pamela was watching _him_ as he said that, rather than smiling hello to the angel. But he couldn’t be sure, given that he was avoiding any and all eye contact by staring straight at the gravel by Aziraphale’s feet while introducing him.

“Well, it’s great to meet you too,” Smitty said gamely. “Aziraphale, was that?”

The angel nodded. “And we’re to call you Smitty, I believe?”

“Yep, that’s me!” The gang leader looked around at the lot of them, stood together in front of the house, and decided it was up to him to take the lead. “Right then, let’s see the place!”

Crowley winced, but the Crawleys simply smiled and filed back inside, willing to forgive the American for his brash talk and ignorance of custom.

The demon did manage to catch Smitty before he went in, though. “Uh, just so you know, the English aren’t a massive fan of money talk, especially in public. It’s, err, not the done thing. Just thought I’d give you the heads up.”

“Oh sure, sure,” Smitty said, nodding earnestly. “I get it. Think it’s rude, don’t they? Thanks.”

“No problem,” said Crowley, and watched the pair of them head on in, Pamela already whispering something in Smitty’s ear.

The demon briefly considered praying that this would all go well, before hurriedly ruling that option out. He was pretty sure She wouldn’t be interested in helping him right now.

“Smoothly done,” Aziraphale said at his right shoulder.

Crowley hadn’t noticed the angel hanging back. His tone didn’t seem confrontational, though, so perhaps this was a truce. The demon let out a long breath, and swore quietly under it. “I’m so screwed.”

“Not yet, you’re not,” Aziraphale said softly. Crowley looked over at him, and dared hope there was something magnanimous in those pale blue eyes.

Then they were indoors and Aziraphale drifted back to the library, leaving Crowley and Robert to give the tour.

* * *

“Incredible place you got here!” Smitty finally declared, once they’d wound up back in the hallway again.

“Thank you,” Robert said modestly, and Crowley winced as Smitty turned questioning eyes on him. He pretended to wipe away a non-existent smudge on the bannister.

“I have to ask,” Pamela said brightly, thankfully drawing Smitty’s attention away from Crowley for a moment. “And do excuse a city gal for the rudeness, but what do you all do for fun around here?”

Robert opened his mouth to respond, but Crowley cut in first. “We went to the cricket yesterday! That was fun. Certainly very, uh, community-spirited.”

“Oh yes,” Lord Grantham said. “That was entertaining. Something of a regular occurrence, a match between the Abbey staff and the locals. Pity you missed the end, Anthony.”

“Crowley,” the demon corrected absently. “Yeah, sorry, bad timing on my part. Excellent game, though.”

“What about parties?” Pamela pressed.

“I do believe Mary mentioned something of the sort earlier,” Robert said thoughtfully. “Something about celebrating your arrival.”

Smitty beamed and squeezed his fiancée’s hand. “Aw, my Pammy does love a good party.”

“It might be a little different than you’re expecting,” Robert warned. “For one thing, we’ll almost certainly be doing something terribly illegal for you Americans.”

Smitty squinted. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“I’m afraid,” Lord Grantham said, lowering his voice seriously. “The party may involve” – he glanced around, as if checking he wasn’t being overheard – “the consumption of alcohol.”

All at once, Pamela and Smitty burst out laughing. Robert smiled politely, pleased at the impact of his joke, while Crowley watched on, not sure how to feel.

“I like this one,” Smitty said to Crowley, gesturing at the Lord of the Manor. The demon smiled weakly.

The New York couple were still recovering from the joke when Carson stepped forward to whisper something discreetly in Robert’s ear. The act didn’t escape Smitty’s notice, but again Crowley made sure he was looking away.

“Your belongings have been brought up to your rooms,” Lord Grantham passed on. “If you wish to get ready before luncheon, Carson will show you up right away.”

“Oh, yes please,” Pamela said immediately. Crowley breathed a sigh of relief.

“We shall see you later then,” Robert said, nodding politely to his guests before turning and heading towards the drawing room.

The demon left quickly too – in the opposite direction, before Lord Grantham could ask him any difficult questions.

* * *

Crowley didn’t quite register where he’d stepped into until it was too late. The large room, with its endless shelves and extensive collection of leather-bound books, had felt almost homely in the moment, and was a relief from the time-bomb pressure of the conversation he was avoiding having elsewhere. He inhaled, let the calm of the place settle over him, and then froze in recognition.

“Do come in, my dear. I won’t bite.”

Aziraphale’s voice was warm, yesterday’s argument apparently forgotten. Crowley swallowed, then rounded the corner in the direction he’d heard the angel call from.

“Bloody Hell, angel. Are you looting the place?”

Aziraphale was sat on the floor beside a shelf which was completely empty, owing to the fact that every book on it was currently piled in stacks around the angel. He looked right at home there, buried among books in the same way he often was when reorganising the shelves in the bookshop. [6]

“Evaluating, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said sadly. “I told you the Crawleys were in trouble. This is why Lord Grantham invited me here.”

Crowley joined Aziraphale on the floor. “You’re appraising them for sale?”

“Robert asked me not to tell anyone. He doesn’t want the family to know how bad it is.” The angel sighed. “Unfortunately I don’t think any of these are going to save the family. Well, fortunately, I suppose. For Heaven. For me. For the humans at large.”

“Unfortunately for me,” Crowley put in.

Aziraphale put down the book he was holding. “How did it go?”

The demon blew his cheeks out. “ _Well_ , I’m not discorporated yet. But Robert kept answering as owner of the house, which he is, and the servants are obviously deferring to him and all that, so Smitty’s definitely figured out something’s up. I just got out of there as soon as I could.”

“You could just tell him the truth. Part of it, at least,” Aziraphale amended at the look on Crowley’s face. “That you don’t actually own the place, you made a bet while drunk and over-confident, and you’d be happy to buy Smitty his own house in the country, but he can’t have this one.”

Crowley scoffed with inarticulate indignance at the implied insult for a moment, before collapsing in resignation. “They’re both sold on it already, is the problem,” he said miserably. “And for all I know he’s brought a selection of pretty little pistols with him that he’d love to try out on me. Smitty’s a great bloke when you’re on the right side of him, but when you fuck up... If I make it out of here with my corporation in one piece, I’ll be bloody ecstatic, is all I’m saying.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t help, then,” Aziraphale said, reaching for one of the books again. He paused. “And I do mean that, Crowley. I’m sorry. But I have to do what’s right.”

“I know, angel.”

Crowley took his cue and left.

* * *

Luncheon passed mercifully uneventfully. Pamela and Cora directed much of the conversation, discussing life across the Pond and its comparisons to English country living with great enthusiasm, much to Violet’s distaste. It was after lunch when the trouble came.

“Crowley,” Smitty said in a low voice, as Pamela moved off, in deep conversation with Mary. “We need to talk.”

_This is it,_ the demon thought blankly. _End of the road. Nice knowing you, everyone._

Smitty led him aside, checked that no one was in earshot, and then said. “Right. Tell me what’s going on.”

“About... what, specifically?” He was blatantly stalling for time, but what other choice did he have?

“This. Everything. Robert Crawley and Downton Abbey, and how the servants always speak to him before you.”

“I mean, he does live here,” Crowley pointed out. “He is the head of the household.”

“But that’s while you’re away. If you really do own the place, shouldn’t they defer to you now you’re back?”

“Yeah, gnhh – well, yeuughn... You see, ergnf...” Crowley swallowed, a touch too audibly for his dignity to remain intact. “What it actually is, is, um –”

“What my friend here is trying to say,” Aziraphale said, appearing beside the pair of them without warning, “and rather terribly, I might add, is that it hasn’t gone through yet.”

“What?” Smitty said at once. Crowley barely stopped himself from joining in.

“The transfer,” Aziraphale said, looking around them just as Smitty had done. “Robert’s awfully ashamed about it, you see. He would have waited, left it in his will as is typical. But the family really can’t afford to wait. They don’t have the money to keep the place going.”

Smitty narrowed his eyes in Crowley’s direction, then focused all his attention on Aziraphale. “Explain.”

“Crowley is the rightful heir, you see. But while I’m sure he told you Downton Abbey is his, he may have stretched the truth slightly. It’s not his _yet_ , but it will be very shortly.”

Crowley was trying very hard not to let his corporation get the better of him, in terms of breathing too hard, sweating too much, or, quite frankly, shitting itself.

“The estate is still in Robert’s name. Which is presumably why Crowley here is being so shifty around you. I take he told you he _is_ Lord Grantham, not _in direct line to be_.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Smitty said, a hard edge to his voice. “But wait – why’s it going to Crowley, then? Aren’t they really distant relatives? Robert’s got three daughters, aren’t they all heirs first?”

“English law, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “Terribly old-fashioned. The earldom functions on male-only primogeniture, and it’s entailed. A woman cannot inherit the title or lands. Which means the line of succession defaults to the first male heir, no matter how distant.”

“Whole continent away,” Crowley added croakily. “Pretty damn distant.” Smitty and Aziraphale ignored him.

“But that’s barbaric!” the ex-gang leader said. “There’s three of them in there, probably all smarter than Robert, and none of them can inherit?”

“Indeed,” the angel said – and oh yes, he was an angel, a true angel, choosing to save a demon from discorporation and humiliation, it’d take decades of favours to pay that back – “it’s a frankly ridiculous system. There was another cousin – slightly less distant than Crowley here, although barely – but I’m afraid he passed before his time, rather recently too. And now they’re left with our friend here.”

“And you say the family’s in trouble?” Smitty said, and Crowley could hear the shift in his voice. This wasn’t a conversation about inheritance anymore – it was about money. That, hopefully, meant Crowley was off the hook.

“Don’t let on to Robert that I told you. But they’ve been struggling with finances for years. I was brought in to assess the library’s stock for resale value, just so they could fund the property through the transfer period. They’re essentially enacting the inheritance early because they can’t afford to run the place anymore, it’s too costly.”

“Hmm.” Smitty looked deep in thought. “Well, thanks for telling me.” The ex-mob boss shot a look at Crowley, and the demon shrank a little under his glare. “You could have just said, ya palooka. I don’t mind waiting a bit. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I dunno. Thought you might shoot me.”

Smitty actually fucking _laughed_ at that. “I’m glad my reputation’s that solid,” he said, winking jovially at Aziraphale. “But I don’t just _shoot_ my _friends_. What do you take me for?”

“A, uh, business man?”

“Exactly! Give me some credit. Shoot everyone you ever disagree with, there’s no one left to do business with!”

“Err, right.” Crowley had to admit he was relieved, although that relief was slightly tinged with embarrassment.

“Shoot ya,” Smitty chuckled to himself. “I’m telling Pammy that one. No problem about the transfer thing, I don’t mind waiting. We don’t have anywhere else to be.”

He left, still grinning, and it was all Crowley could do not to collapse against the wall.

“Well, that went rather well,” Aziraphale said, a little self-satisfied smile on his face.

“Look at you, so good you even save demons from discorporation now,” Crowley joked. “You seemed to get on well with him. Got quite the affinity for trouble-makers, don’t you, angel?”

“Oh, shush, you,” Aziraphale said, but it was playful. He’d recognised Crowley’s teasing, which was – yeah, that was nice, after so long.

“Thanks, though, angel. Good, er” – he mimed talking with his hand – “word-ing, there. Very persuasive.”

Aziraphale brushed off the rather haphazard compliment. “At least that’s the most immediate problem delayed for a short while. Now we need to just figure out what to do next.”

Crowley tried valiantly not to fixate on the ‘we’ in that sentence.

“Honestly, angel, I... I don’t know what we do next. Hell still wants me to make the Crawleys keep the estate, and Heaven still wants you to break it up, and those can’t both happen. And Smitty might be, what, _placated_ for now, but he’ll figure it out eventually. He wants the house, which I can’t give him, but Robert can’t afford to keep it either, and then I’ll probably end up discorporated anyway, and Satan knows whether they’ll let me back up here after screwing something like this up, and –” Crowley realised he was rambling and cut himself off, screaming internally as he did so.

He chanced a look at Aziraphale. The angel was watching him, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“I just don’t know, angel,” he murmured.

Aziraphale gave a sad half-smile. “I’m sorry, Crowley. Neither do I.”

The demon nodded, resigned. _Take each moment as it comes, then, I guess. Let’s just see what happens._

The angel gestured towards the drawing room door. “Come on, my dear. I’m sure they’ll be wondering what we’re up to.”

_What are we up to?_ Crowley thought bleakly. _What the Heaven are we going to do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 Well, almost everything. Adorable angels don’t count. [return to text]
> 
> 3 The worst day of his life _so far_. [return to text]
> 
> 4 Even after all of history, Crowley still found hierarchal customs like this to be a weird distinction to make between humans, but that was the long and short of it. If he bumped into Carson, there’d be no silent judgement if he only nodded to the man and walked on, whereas it would be at the very least considered rude if he did the same to Lord Grantham (if not akin to scandal). There was some pleasure in that right now, though – in the polite distance of it. As a guest in the house, up at a time when only the servants were around, that kind of silent greeting was all that was needed for there to be human connection. At times like this, Crowley rather understood the appeal in being a rich old misanthrope with only a scattering of staff to keep him company. [return to text]
> 
> 5 _Downstairs_ downstairs, that is. As in, Hell. Not the Downstairs that people like Grantham would mean. Honestly, _they_ ’d be far more likely to understand what he was on about than Hell would any day of the week, no matter the topic. Hell just didn’t _get_ Crowley, full stop. [return to text]
> 
> 6 Well, _used to_. Crowley forcibly reminded himself that he had in fact not visited the bookshop in almost sixty years. Give it another four and it would have been open without him longer than with. Whether Aziraphale still reorganised the shelves in that manner was entirely guesswork. [return to text]


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale looked over the dining room at breakfast with a gloomy eye. The van Dyck portrait of Charles I over the sideboard, that would be sold off for profit instead of going to a museum. There wouldn’t be any point in the girls keeping the portraits of the Earls and Countesses of Grantham of bygone eras – they’d probably rot away in storage somewhere. The gold candelabras would be sold to help support the girls, he supposed, as would the silverware. Such a shame. He was barely able to do Mrs. Patmore’s excellent kedgeree justice. There had to be another way, a better way to help people.

No, he was a soldier of the Lord, and he had his orders. Gabriel had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in Aziraphale’s ideas.

“You look like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, Fell.” Robert sat next to him at the table. “Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?”

Aziraphale felt a pang of guilt. This friend was to be driven out of his home. “No, not at all, the guest room is perfectly cozy. Thank you for asking.”

Robert’s face fell. “It’s the library, isn’t it? I suppose there’s no chance of finding a valuable gem in the lot?”

Aziraphale sighed quietly. “I’m afraid not.”

“Well, it’s hardly your fault. Don’t take it so hard. I didn’t expect to send the girls out into the world on the proceeds of my grandfather’s book collection.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about your daughters too much,” Aziraphale said. “They seem very capable and resourceful.”

“Thank you. I wholeheartedly agree.” Robert toasted him with his teacup.

“Perhaps … “ Aziraphale needed to tread lightly now. “Perhaps you should be more concerned about what will happen to you. You know, the disposition of your immortal soul and all that.”

Thank goodness Crowley wasn’t in the dining room to hear him call the final judgement of Robert Crawley’s soul “and all that.” The sarcastic laughter might be more than he could handle before his second cup of tea.

Robert waved his hand. “I figure that as long as I take care of the girls and Cora – and my mother, of course – my soul will take care of itself.”

“Yes, and that’s admirable, but what about the tenant farmers?”

A loud voice came from the doorway. “What about the tenant farmers?”

It was Crowley’s underworld associate, Smitty. He was dressed for the day in a smart brown suit and olive shirt with a white collar. An ostentatious wrist-watch peeked out from under his sleeve, and jeweled cuff links caught the light and sparkled at his wrists. He joined Aziraphale and Robert at the table as he asked the footman for coffee.

“Good morning, Mr. Smith,” Robert said jovially. “I hope we’ve been able to put you up in comfort.”

“Ah, just Smitty, thanks.” Smitty leaned back in his chair, the picture of contentment. “Pammy and I are enjoying the hell out of this place. Most restful trip I think we’ve ever had. I get the feeling I should be thanking you for that instead of Anthony.”

Aziraphale quickly changed the subject. “You were asking after the tenant farmers?”

Smitty took his coffee from the footman with a nod. “Yeah, so they pay rent to the estate?”

“They do,” Robert said. “Unfortunately, for a farm to be profitable these days, it needs to be modernized. Mechanized with tractors and harvesters. All of my tenants are desperate for capital.”

“Ah,” Smitty said. “I don’t know much about farming, but needing capital? That I understand.”

“Let’s not sully such a lovely day talking about finance,” Aziraphale said, needing to change the subject yet again. As far as Smitty was concerned, this was supposed to be Crowley’s estate and Crowley’s need for capital. “How is Pamela this morning?”

“Oh, I almost forgot, Fell,” Smitty said. “Pammy wanted to talk to you about that book you gave her last night. She was up half the night reading.”

That changed Aziraphale’s mood entirely. “Did she enjoy the Wells? How marvelous. She said she had a taste for the fantastical.”

“She’s got a big imagination, my Pammy. Never thinks small.” Smitty’s grin was proud and pleased. “I’m half tempted to marry her right here before her brother finds out that we left New York together.”

Robert laughed. “Don’t let Cora hear you say that. She’ll have your wedding planned in no time.”

Smitty directed Aziraphale to the garden, where Pamela had gone for a walk with Robert’s youngest daughter, Sybil. A small break to discuss _War of the Worlds_ with an educated lady – not at all a “gangster’s moll” as Crowley would have him believe – would be just the thing to invigorate his spirits for the task of getting Robert to give up the estate to the farmers.

Although Aziraphale hadn’t realized how much the tenant farmers needed money. Giving them land wouldn’t be nearly enough. Without the capital to purchase motorized equipment, they’d be stuck farming with horses and oxen, unable to compete with imports. They’d fall into debt, and the land would end up being sold to someone else. It had been silly to think he could just declare “income equality” without giving people financial support. But he supposed he’d have to take it one step at a time.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to find Crowley in the garden. Aziraphale had assumed Crowley would sleep in until late in the morning, his hair disheveled as he coiled up in warm blankets. Instead, Crowley lurked under a pergola, sneering at the climbing purple clematis. The springtime sun was not yet warm enough to dissipate the dew, but Aziraphale already felt too overdressed and hot. Next to the pergola, Pamela and Sybil sat on a wrought iron bench, whispering and giggling and looking absolutely charming among the perennials. Aziraphale wanted to save it all in one of those newfangled photographs: the riotous flowers behind the neat hedgerows, the young ladies bridging their differences to become friends, the well-dressed demon shaking a finger at the greenery for some odd reason.

Sybil stood. “Good morning, Mr. Fell.”

Pamela also stood, waving a gloved hand. “Isn’t this beautiful? Not even the Roosevelts have gardens like these!”

Aziraphale couldn’t keep a cactus alive himself, but he still swelled with national pride in the English garden. “It’s absolutely lovely, my dear.”

“If you don’t mind indulgent gardeners with no talent for discipline,” Crowley muttered darkly.

Aziraphale turned up the wattage on his smile, just to be contrary. “Good morning, Crowley. Still not one for an early start to the day, I take it?”

“Those who get a late start due to laziness have to face the consequences.” This was addressed sternly to a clump of low-growing leafy plants that hadn’t yet flowered.

“Oh, do stop menacing the flora long enough to enjoy the scenery,” Aziraphale said, at a loss to explain Crowley’s rude behaviour.

Naturally, that only made Crowley more petulant. “How did you accidentally wander into the great outdoors? Take a wrong turn between the library and the kitchen?”

“I’m here to speak to the ladies about important matters. Now leave that clematis alone, it’s done nothing to offend you.”

Crowley made a choking noise. “Are you blind? Look at it.” Then he pointed at Aziraphale. “Your problem is that you have low standards.”

Well, he couldn’t let that go unremarked. “Really, my dear? I don’t remember you complaining about my low standards in Paris.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “Do not get me started on Paris, angel.”

“Oooh, what happened in Paris?” Pamela said. “It sounds exciting.”

Crowley sputtered and gestured at nothing. Flustered Crowley was always so … not adorable, that was obviously the wrong word. Not endearing either. The right adjective would come to him eventually.

“No, no, nothing interesting. Paris was a long time ago,” Aziraphale said, although it didn’t feel like a long time had passed. It felt like just yesterday. “Actually, Smitty said that you wanted to speak with me.”

“It must be about the party,” Sybil said. “Mother’s inviting everyone in a sixty-mile radius to get a gander at our Canadian cousin.”

Crowley seemed to have the letters K and X stuck in his throat. Aziraphale went to pound him on the back but thought better of it, pulling his hand away at the last moment and tangling his fingers together to still them.

“Just picture it, me at a British dinner party.” Pamela spun in a circle and curtseyed to Sybil, who laughed as she curtseyed in return.

“Honestly, these things are tedious, but I think you’ll like our neighbors,” Sybil said.

“I’m sure I will,” Pamela said. “I hope my formal gown is appropriate, though. Would you mind looking at it and reassuring me?”

Sybil looped her arm through Pamela’s. “Let’s cause a scandal by wearing knickers.”

The girls headed to the house, chatting animatedly about the probable success of America’s proposed 19th amendment. They were so charming and intelligent. Sybil was wasted here in the country, sitting on the shelf waiting for a titled gentleman to marry her into a proscribed life of hearth and home. Or so Aziraphale chose to believe. Surely, Sybil would be better off with a career of some sort. Surely.

Crowley made a noise that sounded suspiciously like an anguished whine. “That’s it. I’m behind the eight ball now. They’re going to give me the bum’s rush.” When Aziraphale didn’t answer right away, Crowley added, “To put it in terms you’d understand, I’m fucked. Those aristocratic blighters coming to this party are going to tell Smitty that Downton is really Robert’s estate, and I’m nobody.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You couldn’t get anyone to believe you’re nobody.”

Crowley sidled closer, his arm brushing Aziraphale’s. “Oh reaaallllly.”

“Oh, don’t get all … you know what I mean. Humans can sense your, um, I mean our, immortal essences. Not really, not like they know, but … you’re noticeable.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks flush. Crowley was standing awfully close. “You do know what I mean.”

“Not a clue.” Crowley’s smile showed his fangs, as if he felt safe enough not to hide them, which Aziraphale always found … endearing was definitely the wrong word for this.

“You know, dear, if worse comes to worse,” he was babbling now, “you could always cause a distraction by tempting Smitty into proposing marriage.”

Crowley straightened his twisty spine, drawing himself to his full height. “I’m not the marrying kind, sir.”

“Not you, foul fiend.” Rolling his eyes at Crowley’s antics soothed his nerves somewhat, probably because it felt so familiar. “Smitty mentioned something about marrying Pamela before her brother found out.”

“Yeah, her brother runs with a rival gang of bootleggers.” Crowley examined the clematis. “Another pair of star-crossed lovers. We seem to attract them. Ever wonder why that is?”

“No,” Aziraphale lied. “And for the last time, Cleopatra and Marc Antony do not count.”

“Don’t get me started on Egypt, angel.”

But Crowley wasn’t smiling any more, and that felt wrong. Aziraphale rushed to reassure him.

“In any case, you needn’t worry about Dagon. Robert isn’t leaving this estate while there’s breath left in his body.” Aziraphale closed his eyes for just a moment. “You’ll be glad to know I’m sure to fail this assignment.”

“Why would I be glad to know that?” Crowley pouted. “I’m not going to be able to help you with Gabriel because Smitty is going to discorporate me.”

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t come to that.” It shouldn’t lift his spirits that Crowley wanted to help with Gabriel. It wasn’t as if there was anything Crowley could do to help. “I’m not going to see you get discorporated on my watch,” he said firmly.

“But … “ Crowley stilled, all of his usual fluid motions frozen. “You mean that, don’t you?” he said quietly, just above a whisper.

“Of course I mean it.”

That sounded a bit tetchy, but what did Crowley think their argument over the holy water had been about? How did he not understand? Aziraphale knew there were _things_ unsaid between them. Things it would be better not to speak out loud. But surely, Crowley had to know by now that … well, that he worried. That Crowley’s safety was important to him. He wouldn’t let Crowley get stuck in Hell without a body if it was in his power to stop it. Crowley had to understand at least that much.

But Aziraphale didn’t elaborate. He wasn’t going to bring up the argument from St. James Park and ruin their unexpected holiday. Aziraphale was an immortal being, but ever since their argument in the park, he had the creeping sense that time was running out. He didn’t know how to live with it. It made him want to stop time itself, and since that was beyond his power, he wanted to hide from the passage of time instead. Anything but face the uncertain future.

They couldn’t do anything about Gabriel or Dagon, Heaven or Hell, but … “I’m sure between the two of us, we can handle a lovesick human crime boss,” he said.

Crowley grinned. “You understand that I’m not going to thank you for your help with Smitty.”

“Certainly. And you understand that I’m not going to point out that you only have yourself to blame for one of your pranks turning on you.”

The grin only intensified. “Of course. I know you’d never be one of those bastards who goes around saying _I told you so_.”

“Then we understand each other.”

“Perfectly, _mon ange_.” Crowley said it practically in his ear, and Aziraphale’s neck tingled with goosebumps. There were times when he marvelled that Crowley didn’t understand him, and there were times when he feared that they understood each other much too well.

Cora and Mary Crawley were social whirlwinds, picking up the routines of the household and the surrounding estates and tossing them into an entirely new configuration, all for the sake of a party to welcome Cousin Anthony. While the staff cleaned and cooked as if their lives depended on it, Crowley spent the days before the party avoiding Smitty, pacing the gardens while spitting out horticultural criticism, and lurking in the library insulting the titles on display (all too easy a trap to fall into) and gulping down Grantham’s best wine. It would have been a lovely time, the type of holiday Aziraphale thought they’d never have – the gardens, the cozy library fireplace, the late nightcaps while the gramophone played Mozart – if only they didn’t have Assignments hanging over their heads. If only they didn’t always have Assignments hanging over their heads. He wondered if Crowley felt it too, this overwhelming pressure to make time slow down before something went dreadfully wrong. No, most likely not. Crowley had always wanted to go faster. Demons didn’t go in for the virtue of patience, even if they were part serpent. Although Crowley hadn’t asked for holy water again, Aziraphale suspected he was quickly losing what rudimentary patience he’d learned from the humans. Meanwhile, Aziraphale had only himself to blame for the sin of resentment over having to do his job.

Come the night of the party, Aziraphale found himself in the drawing room doing his best to insert his concerns for income inequality into the conversations. He lingered by the Dowager Duchess, who spoke to a lord of some sort about the days growing longer.

“Just think of the farmers toiling in the field from sunup to sundown for such little reward,” Aziraphale said, interrupting them. “If only they could be repaid with land ownership for their investment of labor.”

“Good Lord, Mr. Fell, you sound positively republican,” the Dowager Duchess said, waving her lacy handkerchief to fan herself. “That sort of homesteading talk seems better suited to America than a civilized country.”

“Labor had better remember their place in the general scheme of things,” the rat-faced lord said through his nose.

The Duchess gave the man an icy look. “Grasping men do tend to ruin the peace, especially those who find their place not quite exalted enough,” she said pointedly.

“Now I think you’re playing both sides of the equation, my dear lady,” Aziraphale said.

“It can be hard to navigate the middle path.” She raised her eyebrows. “There are so many thorns on either side, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply when he spotted Crowley make his entrance – and goodness, Crowley always knew how to make an entrance. His fitted tailcoat was tailored to a tightness human craftiness could never achieve. His hair glowed like embers under the chandelier. His hips swayed to imperceptible music. Mary and Edith Crawley fluttered at his sides like moths drawn to a flame.

“Please, let me introduce you around, Sir Anthony,” Mary said, scowling at Edith.

“Sir Anthony, have you filled your dance card yet?” Edith said, flaring her nostrils at Mary.

It was impossible to tell which young lady had Crowley’s attention through those dark glasses. Crowley almost seemed to ignore them as he beelined for Aziraphale. “Fell, what does a man have to do to get a tumbler of Scotch around here?”

“Beg pardon, my lord.” The butler, Mr. Carson, appeared out of thin air with Crowley’s drink.

Crowley jumped, startled. “Right, right, of course.”

The poor dear looked a little overwhelmed with everyone’s attention on him. Aziraphale went to comment to the Dowager Duchess, only to find that the estimable lady had somehow wandered away without his noticing.

Edith valiantly made another attempt. “Who is your first dance partner, Sir Anthony?”

Crowley smiled at the room in general. “Your grandmother, the Duchess, of course. What about you, Fell? Who’s your first dance partner?”

Aziraphale huffed in faked exasperation. “You know I don’t dance.”

“Not at all, Mr. Fell?” Mary said sympathetically.

He patted his leg. “Old war wound, I’m afraid.”

Crowley’s smile disappeared. “You should get off your feet and treat that with some of this fine Scotch.”

“No doubt. I’ll be quite content to sip my cocktail and watch you squire the Dowager Duchess.”

In fact, few things were as amusing as watching Crowley try to dance. Crowley knew it, too, by the suddenly sour look on his face. “’S awfully warm in here for dancing, don’t you think?”

“It is rather stuffy,” Mary said. “Come along, Edith, let’s make sure there’s some air circulation for the dancing.”

“I’m sure Mr. Carson can deal with the temperature,” Edith said sullenly, but she followed Mary off to consult with the staff.

“It’s very warm in here,” Smitty said from behind them, startling Crowley into spitting a little Scotch back in his crystal glass. “Must cost half a fortune to heat this place, right?”

“’S manageable,” Crowley said. “You know. I can manage it.”

“If the estate ever passes from Grantham to you, you mean,” Smitty said.

“Not if.” Even through the dark lenses, Aziraphale could tell Crowley’s eyes were darting around, looking for an exit.

“I’m just saying, if I were Grantham, I’d figure an estate this size would be too much of a responsibility for a character like you, Crowley. Know what I mean?”

“Now, we’ve already discussed that,” Aziraphale said in his best grandfatherly voice. “Let’s not upset the ladies by talking about it during their welcome party.”

Smitty slapped Crowley on the back hard. The move was eerily reminiscent of Gabriel. “Just wondering if Crowley remembers his obligations, that’s all.”

“His only pressing obligation right now is to find our hostess and thank her profusely for her social introductions,” Aziraphale said.

“Right!” Crowley said. “That. That’s the very thing. Was just going to do that. Er, cheerio, then.”

Crowley sauntered to the center of the room, toward Cora Crawley. Aziraphale made sure not to watch him do it.

“So,” Smitty said ominously, “you and Crowley are very good friends. Very close, right?”

“No! I mean, whatever do you mean?” Aziraphale straightened his tuxedo’s white waistcoat. “We hardly know each other, really. Just acquaintances.”

Smitty drew closer and lowered his voice. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I’m a man of the world, Fell. I’ve seen things. And right now, I see you trying to bail him out of trouble.”

“That’s never been remotely possible.” Oh, Heavens, why had that slipped off his tongue? “What I mean to say is, well, we hardly know each other. We’re merely, uh, business associates, I think you’d call it.”

“Yeah, yeah, right, I understand.”

He and Smitty stood together in silence, watching Pamela being approached by a bevy of young men in formal dinner outfits, all vying for the chance to kiss her hand. Pamela sighed with barely concealed impatience while Sybil tried to pull her away from the crush.

“I’m afraid the duller members of the aristocracy can be blatant in their desire for an infusion of American cash,” Aziraphale said by way of explanation.

“I got that one figured out already. Seems like the whole corrupt system is being eaten away by termites. It needs an infusion of something from the New World, that’s for sure.” He spun his glass in his hand. “Pammy loves it here, though. And I gotta say, I don’t miss the pace of New York.”

“She’s a wonderful young lady.” Aziraphale nodded in her direction.

“She is.” Smitty’s genuine smile appeared and was gone, like a darting glimpse of buried gold. “You know, the only thing I don’t understand is what you get out of this. You’re not some trumped up lord like Crowley. What’s your game?”

“I try to do the Lord’s work when I can.” Ugh, more like when it was convenient. The best way not to feel like a hypocrite was to give this another honest attempt. “Have you ever heard of the phrase ‘income inequality’?”

Smitty’s laughter boomed. “I had no idea you were a Marxist, Fell. You don’t look the part.”

“No, I suppose I don’t. But I’m not as interested in politics as I am in ethics.”

That only made Smitty snort another laugh. “Ethics, huh? Boy, you and Crowley are sure opposite sides of the coin, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” he muttered into his empty glass.

“Ah, cheer up, Fell. It’s all good. I may not know how it works here, but I know how it works in America. The way for the working class to get a leg up in the world is through education. Reading. Free public schools and free public libraries.”

Of course! Why hadn’t Aziraphale thought of that when Gabriel was talking to him? “That’s very perceptive of you. I couldn’t agree more.”

“Cheers to that.” They clinked glasses together.

“Yeah,” Smitty continued, “if it wasn’t for those teachers beating math into me, I’d never have figured out how to run numbers. And those biographies of Billy the Kid and Butch Cassidy, I devoured those. Really influential stuff.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “Do you know what, I think I need a refill. Pardon me, would you?”

He skipped the footmen and their trays of champagne flutes and headed straight for the garden. Fresh air was just the thing he needed to clear his head. Moral dilemmas never seemed quite so thorny in a garden. There was some irony there, but he chose to ignore it.

This time, finding Crowley already in the garden wasn’t as much of a surprise, although the way the demon loomed over a defenseless hosta plant was a little off-putting.

“How did you manage to escape already?” Aziraphale asked him, as if slithering out of things wasn’t one of Crowley’s talents.

Crowley shrugged. “How’d your conversation with Smitty go? Got him eating out of your hand yet?”

Aziraphale shook his head, remembering the conclusion Smitty had drawn about his relationship with Crowley. Best not to bring it up. “It was interesting hearing his ideas about general education. But that doesn’t solve any problems for either of us.”

He breathed in the night air to ground himself. He needed to curb his anxiety and not let it take over. Concentrate on the here and now. This springtime garden, where the staff had put up fairy lights. What a marvel. They echoed the stars above, twinkling in the cloudless sky. He inhaled, taking in the scents of tulips and honeysuckle and Crowley’s smoky, slightly mysterious cologne.

Crowley came closer so he could pitch his voice to almost a whisper. “Why did you trust me with the details of your assignment from Gabriel?”

By instinct, Aziraphale scanned the garden for eavesdroppers and witnesses. “Why wouldn’t I tell you? There’s no shame in my orders from Heaven, just in my failure to complete them.”

“That’sss bullshit,” Crowley hissed.

“Thank you for saying so, but—"

“Don’t you dare thank me, angel. Just telling it like it is. They don’t get it when they order us around. You and I, we know more about humanity than all the rest of them put together.”

Aziraphale felt a lump grow in his throat. This was what made Crowley so dangerous – and so tempting. He made Aziraphale feel better about himself. He had ever since the day they’d met in Eden. And now here they were, thousands of years later, in a different garden, and somehow Aziraphale still had the same questions and the same self-doubts. And the same reassuring friend at his side.

“’S beautiful out here, isn’t it?” Crowley said, interrupting his thoughts.

“It is.” He sighed. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

Crowley pushed his glasses down his nose, and their eyes met. Crowley understood what he was saying. They were always understanding each other too well, and yet somehow not enough. Aziraphale’s pulse beat in his wrists, in his neck, in all the veins he inhabited. He should go back inside to the party. Any second now. Crowley stepped closer, reached out his hand …

“There you are!” Edith materialized at their side, and Aziraphale gasped. How on earth was everyone able to sneak up on them tonight?

“Hello, my dear,” he said, straightening his tails and his waistcoat. “Were you looking for us?”

Crowley growled too low for human ears to hear. Aziraphale ignored him.

“I’ve been looking for both of you. Father has a tremendous announcement to make! You’ll never guess!”

That was very true. Aziraphale found he couldn’t even make an attempt at guessing. Edith didn’t seem to notice in her excitement.

“Father’s selling Downton Abbey to Mr. Smith!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google searches for 1920s slang are super fun. Now you're on the trolley. Don't take any wooden nickels. The internet tells me that "spifflicated" is 1920s slang for "inebriated," and I regret not being able to work that into this chapter.
> 
> Fashion notes: Smitty is always in style. Colored shirts with white collars were all the rage in 1920, as were fancy cufflinks. Wristwatches became popular with men during World War I. By the mid-1920s, Cartier and Rolex were selling very pricey wristwatches. In 1926, Rolex released their first waterproof watch. In 1927, Mercedes Gleitze swam the English Channel wearing a Rolex. I'd like to think that stunt causes Crowley to fall in love with watches.


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley’s blood ran cold. Any heat in his face from the almost-moment before drained instantly, and he froze in place in pure terror at the words.

_Father’s selling Downton Abbey to Mr. Smith!_

Smitty wouldn’t feel the need to put up any money if he still thought Crowley had a chance of inheriting the place. Which meant he’d figured out that that wasn’t going to happen. Which meant Smitty knew Crowley had been lying, and lying even when he’d been trapped into telling ‘the truth’. Which meant that he was definitely, completely, one hundred percent _fucked_.

Aziraphale flustered and chattered a little at Crowley’s side, but the demon didn’t hear the words. Edith laughed and disappeared back towards the party, but Crowley was barely aware of that happening. He was too busy already planning his escape route.

 _Perhaps Australia this time?_ Smitty was unlikely to bother searching for him there, considering the distance, and the humans would probably consider it enough of a punishment anyway. Maybe he could sneak a lift on one of the Home Children ships? _Might be a bit too much like the Flood again, but the kids could probably do with a bit of demonic luck..._

A hand landed on his arm, and Crowley leapt back instinctively at the contact. But it was only the angel, looking at him with a worrying mix of concern and determination. _No, no, don’t you– There’s nothing we– Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “Breathe.”

It wasn’t strictly necessary, of course. His corporation was merely a vessel for getting around in, and somewhat subject to his control and whims. It didn’t need a heart – currently beating a mile a minute – or blood – practically frozen in his redundant veins – or lungs. But at Aziraphale’s command, he inhaled anyway.

_In, two, three._

_Out, two three._

“There you go,” Aziraphale murmured as Crowley felt his body relax a little. Not that his mind wasn’t still panicking.

“I’m screwed, angel,” he let out in a whisper, and he hated how pathetic he sounded, how desperate and terrified and lost.

Smitty might be a reasonable bloke, but he was still a gang leader. Crowley had to leave _now_ , or his corporation was toast – as might, potentially, be his chances of getting back to Earth any time soon. How long would Hell take to get him a new body? Or would they not bother at all, and reassign him? Who would they send up in his place, temporary or not? What would happen to Aziraphale? Would they find him? Attack him? Hurt him? Would they realise his ties to Earth, and go for the bookshop? Would they discorporate the angel and leave him stuck up with that awful lot in Heaven? Would they ever let _him_ back to Earth? Would they send someone in his place? Would they ever see each other again?

“Crowley!”

The demon snapped out of it, and found himself staring into a face far more determined than concerned now.

“I’ll go and find out what’s happening,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Go upstairs and wait in your room. Or pack, if it makes you feel better. I’ll cover for you, and see if I can find out what’s going on.” He reached out again, slowly this time, and squeezed Crowley’s arm comfortingly. “I’m sure it will all be fine. No, I _know_ it will be. I’ll make sure of it.”

Crowley wanted to bury himself in those soft, protective arms, to feel that strength hold him close, those wings close over him again, like they had once before, long ago. But – no, he couldn’t have that now. He had to get out of here. He had to get away.

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted. All Crowley could do was nod.

The angel gave his arm one final comforting squeeze, then pushed him away in the direction of one of the side doors into the house. Crowley nodded again, then followed Aziraphale’s lead, barely preventing himself from running to his room.

* * *

The red walls weren’t helping. Blood red, the colour of a messy discorporation – or a Hellish ‘denied’ stamp on an application for a new body. The cream accents weren’t helping either, though – too angelic, too Aziraphale, too much like potential loss.

A knock sounded at the door.

Crowley froze for an instant, then hurried over to open it. _Damn fussy angel, always so intent on politeness, I’m literally waiting for you to–_

It wasn’t Aziraphale on the other side. It was Pamela.

“Hey there, Crowley,” she smiled widely. “I take it you heard the news?”

“Uhh...” A few consonants tried to make a break for it via his throat, but Crowley heroically fought back against them becoming anything so damning as words. “Yep.”

“I just wanted to sneak off and apologise before Smitty got to you, since this is kind of my fault.” She was looking far too sweet and cheerful for this conversation, despite the apologetic edge to her smile. Was this going to be some horrific murder scene? Was cutesy, intelligent Pammy secretly the mastermind behind whatever twisted method of death Smitty was about to deliver? Was she trying to get him to let his guard down, or was she the distraction for Smitty to appear at the window or something? He couldn’t help but step back a little and glance around the room, looking for another exit.

“It’s because of me that Smitty’s in a rush,” she continued. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have minded waiting for a while. Either for whatever legal process you seem to think Robert would be getting on with, or until he dies. But money isn’t exactly an object to my Smitty, as you probably figured. So, yeah. Sorry we ended up undercutting you.”

Crowley’s brain stalled a little at that. “Undercutting me?”

“Yeah, like... I dunno, maybe that’s not the word. But we’ve stopped you from getting your title, haven’t we? And everything else that went with it.” She shrugged, and looked apologetic again. “I don’t know if you were planning to settle here with your title and whatever money and lands and status that gave you, or whether you were just going to sell it and move back to Canada. But Robert probably won’t bother going through verifying that you’re family now, so you won’t be getting anything, even minus the house. So yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Oh,” was all Crowley could muster.

“On the plus side, you’re welcome to come to the wedding, if you want!” Pamela smiled genuinely, her eyes going soft at the thought. “Since you’re the one that basically gave us the chance to make it happen. Smitty woulda taken forever to get round to it in New York, on account of my, er, family situation.” She shrugged again, a little awkwardly. “So yeah, thanks for that. And sorry, again, for stopping you being an Earl and all that.”

There was a slight pause which Crowley couldn’t quite find the words to fill. Then Pamela apologised again and backed out of the room, pulling the door to behind her.

Crowley sank slowly onto the edge of the bed and cradled his head in his hands.

Well... Okay, well, that was good. He wasn’t going to be shot by Smitty. His corporation lived another day.

On the other hand... Well, it wasn’t exactly what Hell had asked for, was it? Dagon certainly wouldn’t be happy. He’d failed to prop up the nobility, as explicitly instructed. In fact, he’d done the opposite – he’d instigated their downfall. For this specific family, at least. So maybe Smitty wouldn’t be sending him back down below, but Crowley would still be lucky to see the sun again next time he had to report on his demonic activities.

More importantly, this screwed Aziraphale over too. Sure, the nobility might be being dissolved in some small way by this, but nothing much else would change. Just a change of hands, a change of name, no real concrete _difference_. Heaven would definitely be angry to hear that Aziraphale failed to break up the estate and address income inequality in any meaningful way. And Aziraphale would be _upset_ too – Crowley knew he’d put a lot of time and effort into his reports over the past several thousand years, trying to explain income inequality to Gabriel and get the archangels to take it seriously. Now that they finally had – or, at least, were pretending to for their own reasons – Aziraphale was going to be gutted that he wouldn’t be able to give them any kind of success here.

How had this outcome managed to fuck the both of them? Somehow neither Heaven nor Hell were getting what they’d asked for out of this one – and there was no way to predict how awful the consequences would be for their representatives on Earth.

Smitty’s words echoed back to him, from that night on the Long Island Sound. _Do you ever think about getting away from it all?_

Was that even possible, for someone like him? Could they really do that? Would Aziraphale even want to go with him?

For one shining moment, Crowley dared to imagine it. He and Aziraphale, spreading their wings and flying away from all of this, away from responsibility and pressure, away from unnecessary animosity and secrecy and fear. They could find somewhere private, quiet, just for the two of them – a distant island, perhaps, or somewhere deep in a jungle. Get lost in a city, or perch for a while up on the moon. Just get away from it all. Enjoy the rest of their existence. Together.

Then Crowley swore softly into his hands, and pushed away the momentary beauty of that ridiculous dream. Where would they go, anyway? Nowhere on Earth could possibly be safe from Heaven and Hell, they’d find them in no time. There were other places, of course – other planets, other solar systems – but it wouldn’t be remotely the same. No humanity, no bookshops, no parks, no food. No, that would be a mark of true desperation, escaping to the stars. And there’d be no guarantee they’d be safe, even there.

 _Fuck._ They were going to have to stick it out down here on Earth. Where they were both going to get reprimanded by their respective Head Offices. _Fuck._

A soft knock came from the door. “Crowley?”

Crowley thanked Satan he was still wearing his sunglasses. He straightened up, tried to school his face into some semblance of calm, and cleared his throat. “Uh, hi angel. Come in.”

Aziraphale pushed open the door, the light from the hallway framing him for an instant. He looked glorious. The bright hallway light caught his hair just so, bouncing around that soft little cloud and making it glow like a halo. His clothes, too, were almost ethereal, the exact kind of pristine white formalwear that suited a fancy party perfectly down here but would probably pass for everyday dress Upstairs. And yet he didn’t have the standoffishness that Heaven did; there was a softness to him, in the creases around his eyes, the curves of his body, the little personal details in his outfit. Tiny things – the pocket-watch, that tartan bow tie. It made him look friendly, kind, approachable. Nothing like his bosses, even when everything should have aligned to make him seem like one of them. He looked perfectly angelic, yet effortlessly human.

Then he stepped through into Crowley’s gloomy, death-coloured guest bedroom, pushing the door closed behind him, and the illusion was gone. Just the illusion, though – an angel, even without a halo, is still an angel; you can always tell if you look hard enough. Crowley had had plenty of time to look.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley began at once. “It’s my fault for bringing them here. I didn’t know our Head Offices were going to get involved but I’m so sorry I’ve dragged you into all this. I should’ve fobbed Smitty off with cash or told him I was lying or just run the fuck away, I don’t know, but now Heaven are going to be upset with you and–”

“Crowley.” The demon shut up immediately.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again and frowned a little. Crowley could see him rephrasing what he had been about to say.

“I can manage Heaven. I should think they’ll be relatively happy with the outcome, actually. Perhaps it’s not quite what they had in mind, but...”

Crowley shook his head, confused. “What?”

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, then came over and perched primly on the edge of the bed, only a foot or so away from Crowley.

“Pamela passed me on the stairs. She mentioned she’d apologised to you about cutting you out of your inheritance. Which I take it means you’re safe from being shot by Mr Smith.”

“Yeah, it... seems that way.” Not that Crowley was really thinking about that anymore. _He_ wasn’t the important one. “What were you saying about Heaven?”

“Oh, just that...” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered in his lap. “Well, Pamela and Smitty do have some rather interesting thoughts on the topic of what to do with the estate. Particularly regarding the tenant farmers. I rather think that – well, it’s not _quite_ what Gabriel was asking for, but I’m sure I can explain to him the, ah, _benefits_ of injecting a little modern thinking from America, not to mention funds...” The angel seemed to realise he was rambling and stopped short. “Suffice to say, I don’t think my assignment has necessarily not been completed, if you catch my drift. It just needed a human or two to think a little outside the box.”

“Right,” Crowley said, a tidal wave of relief cresting over him. “Well, then. That’s good.”

 _No need to run away together after all,_ a distant part of his mind whispered sadly. He squashed it down firmly, hoping to squeeze the life out of it. Not that that ever worked – they kept popping up, those unwanted thoughts. At the most inconvenient times.

“What are you going to tell Dagon?”

“I don’t know. ‘Hey, sorry, the humans outsmarted me. No, no, I’m definitely still the demon for the job, you can count on me!’” Crowley sighed heavily. “I mean, I’d happily blame it on you, say you managed to outsmart me this time, but it’d probably be the same result. I’d be lucky if I ever saw – if I ever saw the Earth again.”

Part of him hoped that Aziraphale hadn’t noticed the stumble. The rest of him ardently hoped that the angel would fill in the unsaid.

“I hope not,” Aziraphale said quietly in the direction of the floor, so softly Crowley wasn’t sure he’d even heard it at first. He looked sideways at the angel, and marvelled as a touch of pink bloomed on his cheeks. “It would be awfully... quiet. Without you.”

“You like quiet," Crowley pointed out gently. “All those books. Can’t read them if I’m causing a racket in the next room.”

“No,” Aziraphale conceded. “But I do rather like to talk about the books once I’ve read them.”

Crowley hardly dared even breathe. Aziraphale glanced at him, and their eyes met for an instant over the top of Crowley’s dark lenses. Those soft, sad, lonely blues. Asking him to stay. Asking him to find a way out of this. He’d never been able to say no to those eyes.

Then the angel looked away again, and the moment was gone.

“I certainly think Smitty and Pamela got the best deal out of all of this,” Aziraphale carried on, as if nothing had happened. “Besides having to buy the Abbey themselves, I mean. They’ve escaped an unfortunate situation, found somewhere beautiful to live, and now they’ll be able to marry.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “I suppose crime does pay in the end, sometimes.”

Oh. _Oh. OH!_

“That’s... that’s exactly it, angel,” Crowley breathed. “That’s... holy shit, you’re a genius!”

"I am?"

Crowley sprung up from the bed. “That’s perfect!”

“What is, my dear?”

“ _Crime pays_ , angel. _Crime_.” He glanced around, searching the room. The party was still cheerfully waltzing on downstairs, so they wouldn’t be able to go into any of the open rooms of the house. “Is there a gramophone in the library?”

“Err, I believe so...?”

“Come on, then!” The demon set off at a run, throwing open the bedroom door and sprinting down the stairs towards the large, dark, empty library.

There it was, exactly as he’d hoped – a second gramophone, tucked away in the corner of the room. He could still hear the music from the first filling the drawing room, but the humans wouldn’t hear this one. There were certain things that were not for mortal ears.

Crowley grabbed the handle of the machine at once and began cranking it. A scattering of notes floated out of the trumpet. _How did this work, again?_ He’d have to hope that Dagon was filing paperwork or something in the office, rather than screaming at underlings elsewhere. _Come on, pick up. I need to know if this’ll be enough._

“Dagon?” Crowley called, directly into the mouth of the horn itself. “You there? I’ve got an update.”

It took a moment, but then Dagon’s voice scraped its way past the gentle first notes of Vaughan Williams’s _Tallis Fantasia_. “ _What?_ ”

“I have some news. About my latest assignment.” Crowley could hear himself grinning, and he hoped the Lord of the Files would take it for pride rather than relief.

“What is it, then?”

“As you predicted, I encountered some Heavenly interference,” Crowley began. He glanced behind him, and saw Aziraphale hanging back at the doorway, looking nervous. Crowley gave him the thumbs up.

“The Principality seems to have been told to dismantle the local nobility in aid of income equality,” the demon continued. “And rather effectively. The Earl here was looking to sell his property already, and wouldn’t be persuaded out of it. But then – oh, you’re going to love this – do you know who I convinced him to sell it to?”

“...Who?” Dagon asked icily.

_Please work, please work, please work._

“A high-ranking member,” Crowley said in his best suave voice, “of one of the major New York City crime gangs.”

There was a long, terrifying pause.

Crowley counted to ten, then dove onwards.

“I know, I know, it’s a lot to take in. But think of the possibilities this brings Hell! A mob boss taking up residence in Yorkshire, all the influence that’ll have on the surrounding countryside, all the potential for corruption. Talk about glorifying organised crime – this practically elevates it to a life goal! I’ve managed to stop Heaven from breaking up the estate, _and_ I’ve proved that crime does pay. How devilish is that?”

This was it. The moment of truth. Crowley didn’t dare look back towards Aziraphale, worried what he might see in the angel’s expression. Worried that that might trip him up. Worried that Aziraphale might see the terror on his own face.

“That isn’t what I told you to do.”

Crowley’s hands were balled into tight fists, the nails beginning to cut into his skin. _Come on, come on, please. Please, please, please. Think about it!_

“But.”

The demon in the library stopped breathing. The silence was so complete – barring the sound of the party in the background, wafting in through the half-open door – that Crowley could tell Aziraphale was holding his breath too.

“Having someone like that in a prominent role in the community would have... some excellent projections for Hell. Possibly better than just maintaining income inequality.”

Crowley didn’t want to flatter himself, but Dagon did almost sound impressed. “I’m glad you like it. It took some doing, I can tell you.”

“Sure.” The Lord of the Files seemed done with this conversation now – presumably there were reports to write up and statistics to calculate on the introduction of a mob boss into the English social ecosystem. “Next time, do what I tell you to. Don’t start thinking you can go off-piste whenever you feel like it. But... yes, on this occasion, your input was useful. Don’t let it happen again.”

Crowley savoured that grudging approval far more than he should probably want to. “Of course, your disgrace.”

There was a grating, warping sound from the gramophone, and then Vaughan Williams was back again. Crowley switched the machine off, and turned to Aziraphale.

The relief on the angel’s face was undeniable and undisguised, almost an exact reflection of Crowley’s own. But there were other emotions mixed in there, too – ones Crowley didn’t have time to recognise and comprehend before they were wiped away by one of those blinding smiles.

“Thank goodness for that,” Aziraphale said weakly.

“Not sure goodness had much to do with it, angel,” Crowley winked. “Might thank the humans, though. And you, for giving me the idea.”

The demon sauntered over to the doorway, a relieved spring in his step at having slithered out of another sticky situation. He offered an arm to Aziraphale.

“Shall we head back to the party, angel? I think we’ve earned a little leisure time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the penultimate chapter of the fic, and the last one that I (Freyja) wrote. It's been such a great experience working together on this - thank you so much to [Hexqueen517](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexqueen517/) for doing this with me! And thank you to [bisasterdi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisasterdi/) of GO-Events for running the [POV Pairs event](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/GO_POVPAIRS) and putting us together as writing partners!
> 
> I really hope you've had just as much fun reading this fic as I had working on it. I'd like to say a special thank you to everyone who kudosed and commented and joined us on this journey, on AO3 and tumblr and discord. Only one chapter left now - endings are always a little bittersweet, but I for one can't wait!


	8. Chapter 8

**One month later**

Aziraphale was ensconced in his bookshop, savoring a cup of Assam and sorting his correspondence. He had not one, but two letters in the morning post that he was very much looking forward to reading. The first letter, from Lady Mary Crawley, was addressed from the Crawleys’ townhouse in London. After polite greetings in her elegant handwriting, she updated him on her new life.

_It seems so strange not to be in Downton Abbey, but how exhilarating to no longer have the costly albatross around our necks! London is treating us all so well. Father is getting more involved with Parliament and can no longer say he feels useless. Edith is getting involved in London’s literary scene, so here’s fair warning that you’re bound to run into her someday. Sybil is planning to teach nursing at the new girls’ school the Smiths are setting up in Downton, but first, she’s taking a travel holiday - starting with Dublin, only God knows why, but it’s making her happy, so I’m in favour. Mother and Grandmother are raising money for the girls’ school, which means we must host parties and dinners for our new cause. I believe the Smiths are planning to name the school after Mother. And Mr. Carson writes that he’s busy as ever helping the Smiths to learn about Downton’s rich history, and that all the staff have been retained by the new owners._

_As for me, I’m thankful that the upkeep of the estate, and the financial well-being of my family, no longer depend on me making a lucrative marriage. We have all done our duty to Downton Abbey, keeping it together, and now we may lay down our arms in retirement and greet the modern era unencumbered by the past. If you’ll allow me to continue to mix metaphors dreadfully, we may finally spread our wings and choose our own paths, and I couldn’t be happier._

Mary’s letter was a delight, but the pink envelope and matching stationery from the new owners of Downton Abbey made Aziraphale break out in a smile that brightened most of the neighborhood. Pamela Smith was quickly becoming one of his favorite correspondents. Her erudition and natural vivacity came through in her letters. 

_The wedding was small, just the way we wanted it, although we had hoped that you and Anthony could have attended. At least I know I’ll see you soon, since I’ll need your help desperately with the curriculum for the girls’ school. The architect said it would be at least a year before the buildings would be finished, but then Smitty had a heart-to-heart with him, and now we’re sure it will be done before Christmas._

_How exciting, my first English Christmas! I hope you don’t find me too naughty, looking forward to celebrating without my family for once. Between the Crawleys and Mr. Carson and the wonderful staff here - and you and Anthony, of course - I almost think I’ve found a new family here who sees me for who I am, rather than only seeing my family’s sordid past. I feel like I can finally breathe with this magical opportunity to be who I choose rather than what my name dictated at birth. I wonder if you can ever know how much that means to me._

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a bracing swallow of tea. Yes, he could imagine how much Pamela valued this chance to stop being part of a clan and just be herself. And she’d chosen to show her gratitude by setting up this school for the less fortunate girls of the area. All’s well that ends well, indeed. 

He searched in vain for another note in the post. He’d sent an envelope to Crowley containing only a ticket to tonight’s performance of _The Beggar’s Opera_ at the Lyrium, but he hadn’t received a reply. Of course, that wasn’t unusual. After all, they were both being scrutinized. He hadn’t heard from Crowley since they’d both fled Downton Abbey after his report to Dagon. Was the demon even in London? Aziraphale had sent the ticket to Crowley’s old address, but as far as he knew, Crowley had last lived there in the Victorian era. It had been a futile gesture, most likely. He should’ve known better than to expect anything to come of it.

One letter remained that he hadn’t yet opened. This one had not arrived by post, and it smelled of ozone. The handwriting was hopelessly old-fashioned, even to his own, admittedly fussy eyes. There was nothing for it. He couldn’t postpone reading Gabriel’s missive forever. He scanned the parchment, jumping immediately to the conclusion.

_… After due consideration, we have decided that ousting the aristocracy from Downton Abbey and helping found a school in the area counts as fulfilling your assigned mission. However, we will be keeping a closer eye on how you execute your assignments in the future…_

He sighed out a long breath. Perhaps Crowley was right, and Gabriel only cared about sticking it to Dagon and Beelzebub. He wondered if Gabriel realized that the situation had come to yet another stalemate. Nobody Above or Below ever seemed to notice that, which was for the best. If they came to the conclusion that they’d been spinning their wheels on Earth for centuries, they might try something rash and drastic. 

But the logical conclusion to that thought was that the Arrangement had been keeping the forces of Heaven and Hell in check. Every time he and Crowley convinced their superiors that they were just a tiny bit ahead of the competition, they bought Earth a little more time. He sipped his tea, thinking hard. Sometimes his responsibilities seemed at cross purposes, like Robert Crawley trying to both maintain Downton Abbey and keep his family happy. Perhaps one day, something would happen to cut the Gordian knot that tied up his commitments to Earth and to Heaven and let him … 

No, no, that was just silly. Surely, what Heaven wanted would be best for everyone. He had to learn to stop compulsively overthinking. Honestly, the nonsense his ridiculous mind came up with sometimes! 

After a light supper of salade nicoise, paired with a small glass of chablis he couldn’t help thinking would taste better if it were shared, Aziraphale dressed for the theater. He knew he’d be attending alone, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking extra care with his attire. His trousers and coat were freshly pressed, and he selected the white-on-white paisley waistcoat he’d worn at Downton that made him feel especially stylish. It wasn’t that anyone had complimented it, that would certainly be too much to ask. He was wearing it because he liked it.

It wasn’t as if he was dressing for a date. He was not dawdling by the front window as if he was waiting for a suitor to invite inside for some of that chablis. Nobody was going to accompany him on the stroll to the theater. He was quite capable of accompanying himself, thank you very much. 

Still. He waited until the last possible minute before leaving the shop. When he arrived at the theater, he lingered on the pavement, watching the pedestrians. His ticket had an assigned seat number, so there was no need to rush inside. And there were always some renegades who insisted on being fashionably late, whatever that meant. 

The crowd thinned as the time until the opening curtain loomed. Aziraphale checked his pocket watch, sighed, scanned the street, and then forgot what time it was and had to check his watch again. The overture would be coming to an end, and it was high time to find his seat. It would be rude to the other theatergoers to delay any longer.

The outrageously shiny automobile skidded to a stop directly in front of the theater doors, one tire resting on the kerb. The heavy, metallic smell of exhaust fumes made Aziraphale wave his handkerchief in front of his nose. Trust the fiend to make an entrance. He could see Crowley’s grin through the windscreen. And the way Crowley curled and unfolded his body from the car was nothing short of astounding.

He waved a ticket in Aziraphale’s direction. “What a coincidence, running into you like this.”

“Yes, fancy meeting you here.” 

Was he smiling too loudly? Wait, smiling didn’t make any noise. He forced himself to rein in his enthusiasm regardless.

“You’re not going to leave that on the kerb, are you?” he asked as Crowley came to his side.

“Why not? Don’t you like it?”

“I miss horses.” He tried not to pout coquettishly and probably failed.

“Really?” Crowley peered over his glasses. “I don’t think you’d be likely to shovel out the stables in that getup.”

Oh, how lovely. Crowley had noticed the waistcoat. Aziraphale felt like tingly little bubbles were filling his chest with lightness. 

Crowley gestured with a wave to the automobile. “That’s not the right one. Too moody. The moody bastard can stay there. I don’t know when I’ll find the right one, but it won’t be an American car, that’s for sure.”

“Do they have personalities like horses? I thought they were machines.”

“Wha … do they … yes, angel, they damn well have personalities.”

That seemed unlikely, but who was he to say? He was always learning something new, and the humans were deucedly clever with their inventions. 

“We really ought to get a wiggle on, dear, or we’ll miss the opening lines.”

Crowley heaved a put-upon sigh. So dramatic. With his long legs, he reached the door a step ahead of Aziraphale and inclined his head. “After you.”

He opened his mouth to say thank you, but managed to stop himself in time. No need to ruin the evening right off the bat. 

As they wound their way through the theater to their seats, he said, “I had a letter today from Mrs. Smith. Plans for the girls’ school are afoot.”

“I can’t believe Smitty turned his life over to good works. I mean, isn’t there a crime wave he could be starting in Yorkshire? There must be something there worth stealing.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in an expression Crowley should be quite familiar with. “You’re not going out there to give him ideas, are you?”

“What would be the point? He’s in love, and he escaped an entire continent to be sure of it.” Crowley shook his head in mock sadness. “He’s currently grabbing the brass ring that’s dangled out of his reach for years. You can’t tempt a man like that with anything else.”

“That’s almost musical, dear fellow. You should write that down.”

“Trust me,” Crowley said darkly, “I’ll remember it.”

But as the stage lights came on and the music started up, Crowley’s mood improved again, the mercurial creature. Not that Aziraphale had any complaints. Although the theater seats were awfully squashed together. He could feel the heat from Crowley’s aura lap up against his own. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just very noticeable, and a bit cosy.

At the first intermission, they kept their seats as the lights came on. Crowley must’ve agreed that they’d settled in for the evening. 

“So, are you planning on heading back to the Colonies?” Aziraphale asked, feeling strangely apprehensive about the answer.

“Yup.” Crowley popped the p. “You know, the rest of the world has been calling them the United States for a while now.”

“Oh, well, how nice for the rest of the world,” he said testily.

Crowley couldn’t hide a smile. “I’m not in a hurry to get back. Dagon wants me on the West Coast this time. You ever hear of a place called Hollywood? They make moving pictures there.”

“You mean California?” Aziraphale shuddered. “Sounds ghastly.” 

Mostly, though, it sounded very far away. Perhaps Crowley agreed, because he didn’t argue the point. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the members of the orchestra riff with each other to kill time during intermission. Around them, people chatted about the first act, and the weather, and the fancy automobile abandoned out front. Crowley, who could never sit entirely still, jiggled his knee. The burning question Aziraphale really wanted to ask, if he was forgiven for refusing to hand over holy water, remained unspoken. 

He could feel Crowley’s forgiveness anyway. Although they’d never come to an agreement about arming Crowley with holy water, at least Crowley seemed to finally understand that Aziraphale was taking this stance to protect him, to guard against any way such a final weapon could be used against him. In the gardens at Downton Abbey, they’d discovered that even this crucial point of contention wasn’t enough to rupture their odd friendship. The rate at which the world was changing was overwhelming, but knowing the Arrangement would survive the 20th century made it so much easier to bear.

Everyone around them was seated again, and the lights dimmed. With his eyes focused on the stage, Aziraphale said quietly, “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in tasting a French chablis from a vineyard that miraculously managed to survive trench warfare?”

Crowley, also, kept his gaze directed forward. “Meh, I could be tempted into it.”

“I suppose I’ve learned a thing or two about temptation. I could give it a try.”

Crowley laughed. “You could give me lessons on temptation, angel.”

He found himself echoing the laughter. “I doubt that, you wily serpent.” 

The actors appeared on stage, and the audience cheered ecstatically. With the end of the recent war, there was a collective sense of relief and anticipation among the citizens of London, as if the world was ready to be remade brand new.

It really was an absolutely beautiful evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working with @freyjawriter24 has been incredible. This is the first time I've written something collaboratively, and the experience was wonderful, thanks to @freyjawriter24 being both a talented writer and a great communicator. Thank you! And thanks to @bisasterdi and the people on the GO Events Discord server for sponsoring this event. I'll be getting involved in more events in the future now that I know how fun they are. And thank YOU for reading!


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